


Rust and Frost

by uglypinkapartments



Category: The Killers (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28522719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglypinkapartments/pseuds/uglypinkapartments
Summary: A chronicle spanning the teenaged years of four boys, in which the mundane is exhilaratingly new and the serious become optimistically colorful.In the cold, honest nature of winter, Brandon finds that the world he stands upon is different than he thought. And he is, too. Unexpected cracks in the ice are less terrifying than they appear, and security not as tangible. The faded edges of memory and time soften the lines between what is good and what hurts.
Relationships: Brandon Flowers/Ronnie Vannucci Jr.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Henderson, Nevada

At a crossroads, two streets led to different schools. Firstly, a blue one to the left where Ronnie and Mark went to receive the sorry excuse of an education Henderson, Nevada had to offer in the 2000s. And then, on the right, sat the red brick, private Christian school. It was a glorified shithole with crosses nailed to the walls, whereas the blue, public school was simply a shithole. That crimson place was where Brandon and Dave had the misfortune of attending high school. 

On Fridays, the bell would ring at three o'clock. Mark and Ronnie would cross the street to meet Brandon and Dave by a stop sign.

Their lives didn't all collide until after Middle School. Brandon and Dave had been by each other's sides since elementary, whereas Mark and Ronnie started kickin' it in seventh grade.

During freshman year, in 2005, Brandon typically spent what little money he had at a gas station. He'd stop by as he walked home. One day, Mark made the mistake of agreeing to cover a friend's shift at the shop. He didn't work there, and he wasn't sure if fourteen-year-olds were allowed to work, but he made it a habit to not ask questions. He ran to the gas station as soon as school ended in order to make it on time. A promise was a promise.

Brandon waltzed on in as usual. When Mark saw the sliding doors open, he took the hint and took one of his earphones out. Brandon grabbed a red Coca-Cola can, caffeinated, the type his parents wouldn't let him drink, from the glossy minifridge. The appliance was plastered with faded brand stickers. He walked up to the register. Mark nodded, a sign of acknowledgment as he scanned the soda of glory.

"Hey, what're you listening to?" Brandon asked. He was a little jealous of Mark's shiny new iPod.

"Hendrix."

"Nice." Brandon stressed the 'e' to show he meant it.

Mark put Brandon's receipt into a plastic bag along with the quickly-warming soda can. He handed it over, proud of himself for knowing how to work a cash register flawlessly. Meanwhile, Brandon had a feeling he shouldn't walk away yet.

Mark asked which of the two schools Brandon went to. Brandon answered, naturally, and introduced himself while he was at it.

"The red school? That's tough. Sorry to hear it," Mark replies, only half-joking. "I'm Mark, by the way."

"I think you've got it so much worse over there. Nice to meet you, Mark!" Brandon laughed as he turned away.

Mark smiled to himself and mistakenly assumed he'd never see this spunky stranger again. Just another face, as always. He had no problem with being proven wrong, but just two weeks was a bit brash.

Ronnie worked at a music store. It was actually a thrift shop with a large vinyl section, but 'record store' took a softer blow to his ego. Not that anyone who spent their time after school working instead of playing football or video games had much ego to begin with.

Exactly two weeks, fourteen days, after meeting Brandon, Mark biked to his best friend's house. He figured his Friday afternoon would go like so: he and Ronnie would get up to their usual antics, be it an intense game of 'Uno' or ding-dong-ditching their neighbors, and they'd have a grand old time.

Mark was about to learn a valuable lesson, which was to keep his expectations low, and his head lower.

Mark knocked on the shabby front door. He fully expected to see Ronnie once it opened. However, what he actually saw was Ronnie's mom, who was just about to leave for work. That was when he realized he'd made a mistake. Every other Friday, Ronnie's mom had an evening waitressing shift at a local restaurant. Ronnie worked at the thrift shop those same Fridays. 

This meant Mark made a severe miscalculation and biked in the opposite direction he needed to.

"Mark? Ronnie's at the shop already."

"Yeah, just realized," Mark replied. He propped his bike back up and hit the road. He didn't even stop to turn his iPod back on. "Have a nice day, Ms. Vannucci!"

The thrift store did not smell or look particularly great. Mark knew beggars couldn't be choosers, but he much preferred the cozier atmosphere of Ronnie's house. When Ronnie's mom wasn't too worn out after work, she'd bake all sorts of wonderful things. Mark liked her oatmeal cookies best. _His_ parents both worked at a hospital and were always tired. Too tired to make home-baked goods. He picked up a few recipes through trial and error but making them himself didn't feel the same.

The store smelt nothing like warm, fresh-baked cookies. Let it be left at that. Mark left his bike outside, without a chain or lock. He hoped no one was sad enough to rob a broke high school student.

The bell signaling a new customer was in chimed. Ronnie tried to look as if he had been doing something productive but relaxed once he realized it was Mark.

"You didn't tell me you were working today." Mark decided to shift the blame from his poor memory to Ronnie not keeping him up to date. Taking accountability was for losers.

"I wasn't working last Friday, and the Friday before that one, I was. And you knew, without me explaining beforehand. It's not that complicated," Ronnie replied as he organized various coins. 

"I think we need to get a calendar or something," Mark said, dragging a chair to the register.

"Yeah, right. What are you doing here anyway? Instead of going home, you decided to, well..." Ronnie motioned his hands towards the store for emphasis.

Mark pulled out a packet of Algebra homework. "I'd be doing the same boring shit either way. May as well keep you company."

That was not true. Mark and Ronnie always had every intention of doing their homework early, but they couldn't be trusted to work when left in the same room for five minutes. Who could blame 'em? Ronnie had a rad comic book collection and Mark had a GameCube system. By comparison, World History and Shakespeare seemed unimportant.

"Alright then." Ronnie got bored of sorting coins. He switched gears to keeping a tally of the ceiling tiles.

Mark desperately tried to recall how to factor trinomials and operate his clunky calculator.

And then two freshmen walked in. Dave was there for books. He wasn't interested in reading, but his parents were threatening to take away his Nintendo 64 if he didn't read at least one book a month. He didn't want to bother with the library's return dates, so thrift store it was. Brandon, on the other hand, was looking to beef up his vinyl collection. 

Dave immediately walked out of Brandon's line of sight behind a bookshelf, without acknowledging either of the boys by the register.

"Hey, Mark! I thought you worked at the gas station," Brandon said, walking towards a short shelf of records.

Dave stuck his head out with an eyebrow raised. He hadn't heard of this 'Mark' guy. He and Brandon usually told each other just about everything. From mundane substitute teachers to spotting a sport's car in the street, nothing was undeserving of a full-fledged conversation.

"I don't actually work here or there. Was covering for a friend, and now I'm annoying the living hell out of Ronnie here." Mark was a good sidekick.

"Sounds about right." Ronnie shot Brandon a quick wave. He'd counted about fifteen ceiling tiles by then, but he lost track.

Brandon had just come up with the perfect words to introduce himself to Ronnie when Dave popped out again.

"Nice to meet you both. I'm Dave."

Mark looked at Ronnie. "Ronnie, this is Brandon. Brandon, as you know, this is Ronnie."

And so now the four were acquainted.

"You guys looking for anything in particular?" Ronnie asked. As a cashier, he didn't get paid for this but he needed an excuse to keep the conversation going. There weren't any other employees around anyway. 

"Oh. Well, I wanted to pick up a couple of records, but I don't actually recognize most of these albums. I dunno what to pick."

Ronnie walked out from behind the counter and Mark shot up like a bullet. When it came to pushing their music taste onto others, er, giving out recommendations, Ronnie and Mark were highly skilled. Dave kept one ear open. He was busy reading the blurb of a thin, dusty novel with yellowed pages.

Mark and Ronnie both stood beside Brandon. Ronnie had already spotted a few of his favorite albums. He decided to wait and see what Mark would recommend in order to scope out the playing field.

"The Beatles are a classic and absolutely brilliant," Mark said, pointing to a cover featuring the four members walking down a crosswalk.

"Don't oversell it," Ronnie said. "Brilliant, sure, but a bit on the nose. What about The Smiths?" Ronnie picked out a record with a dark green cover and pink font. He added it to the stack he and Mark created before Brandon even got a word in.

"The Beatles were a bit too on the nose... so you pick _The Queen Is Dead,_ the most overrated Smiths album?" Mark said. He and Ronnie both liked rock music, but past that and onto the specifics, they were into different niches. "How about... The Cars?" This record was a greatest hits compilation. On its cover, there was a woman in red high heels sitting on a white car.

At this point, Brandon realized he should probably say something and interrupt. If Ronnie got the chance to retort back at Mark's obviously blasphemous way of thinking, they'd start a nuclear war over alternative rock. _'Their most popular, yeah, but also their best,'_ Ronnie would've said. Dave had some strong opinions of his own, but he would hold his breath. Unless someone started dissing The Police or The Cure _._ Then he'd be all in. Instead, Brandon spoke for more than five seconds for the first time during this entire ordeal.

"Hm. I dunno, I don't wanna seem old-fashioned." If the task at hand was to simply make words come out of his mouth, Brandon had in fact succeeded. Except, while he didn't know exactly what he'd wanted to say, that was definitely not it. It wasn't true. Even if it was, he knew better than to speak poorly of seeming old-fashioned in a room full of people who were all obsessed with music from the 80s.

There it was. Dave decided to throw in his two cents. "Brandon, you're buying records at a thrift store. Half your wardrobe consists of hand-me-downs from Shane." Shane was Brandon's college-aged brother. "And you liked Hendrix when I showed him to you, and he's even older." Hendrix was not just 'old' but also very dead.

This was when Brandon probably should've clarified he'd meant to say something else entirely. He kept quiet to avoid further digging his own grave. Anyway, Mark's attention was now redirected at how Dave was also a fan of Jimi Hendrix.

"And hey, you're from the Christian school, right? The Smiths might make your folks a bit mad," Ronnie said, taking a shot in the dark.

"Which is exactly why you should buy it," Dave said.

Mark grinned at that. Dave said what Mark thought but was usually too polite to say out loud. They'd get on well.

Other customers started making their way into the store. The expiration date on this conversation had been met. 

Ronnie returned to his position behind the cash register quietly. Mark went back to half-assing his homework. Dave grabbed two random books off the shelf. Each one was fifty cents and he had a wrinkly dollar bill in his jean pocket. Brandon collected his records.

"Trust me, they're good albums," Ronnie said as he put Brandon's receipt in the bag. Brandon smiled. He turned away to follow Dave, who already had one foot out the door.

Ronnie watched as the two walked out. Brandon turned back one last time to wave, still bearing a smile. Mark had taken to pretending to be an employee. He shooed a little girl away from the glass collectibles. Dave started ranting about what the headmaster said to him in the hallway earlier that day, making sure to emphasize that he hadn't been _that_ late.

This time, Mark had a feeling he'd run into Brandon and Dave again. They were nice kids, cut from a similar cloth that he and Ronnie were. It was good to have friends from all parts of town. More importantly, Brandon and Dave were damn funny. The other kids took themselves far too seriously. Even more than Mark himself did.

When Brandon got home, he sat on the floor by his record player. He turned the volume down and kept his ear pressed up against the plugged in speaker. He lost track of time until his mom called him down for dinner.

Two weeks later, Dave and Brandon found themselves back at the tiny thrift store. Dave protested against going at first. He still hadn't finished his books. Plus, he'd been hoping to stop by a diner instead. Brandon insisted he wasn't hungry, and he always won.

Ronnie, as scheduled, was working the register again. Mark returned to his unpaid position as assistant to the cashier, and number one distractor. Not that there was much for Ronnie to be pulled away from. The shop was empty. Customers probably preferred the nicer smelling Goodwill with its larger selection.

"What's a translation, again?" Mark was frowning at his workbook. He was typically competent enough to trudge through algebra. Right now, it was like reading another language. Something with a weird alphabet.

"Er, you know. You move all the plotted points in a different direction. Something like that."

Mark was about to go on about how he'd rather drink drain cleaner than learn the difference between _slides_ and _reflections._ Luckily for Ronnie, this was when Dave and Brandon conveniently made their appearances. 

"Oh, look. You guys back for more torture?" Mark said. He had what his teachers called an 'interesting' sense of humor.

"Of course. What's the debate today? Queen versus the Foo Fighters?" Dave said. 

"No, it's Mike Tyson versus Buster Douglas," Brandon suggested.

"Jesus Christ, get over it, Brandon. It was more than a decade ago," Dave said. 

With how often his dad brought it up, it was like Brandon had been alive to see it.

"How'd you like the albums?" Mark lit up in anticipation. He had a knack for feeling people out, or so he thought. He hoped Brandon would be enamored with the records like he was.

"I've been playing them on repeat, half to death. _The Queen Is Dead_ was my favorite, though. I think I've become obsessed with Morrissey's lyrics."

Ronnie triumphantly fist-pumped the air. "Just don't go googling him." 

Mark had to put a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. "I knew you'd be into them, Brandon. Sometimes, you just gotta let loose and go with it."

"Letting go?" Dave lovingly scoffed. "Never. Bran's the boy with the thorn in his side and a stick up his ass."

"Wait and see. Maybe we can shake him free of those mortal chains," Ronnie said.

Mark tried to figure out a way to phrase an invitation in a way that wasn't completely lame. "You lot," he said, referring to Brandon and Dave, "are damn cool. We've all got to hang out sometime."

Brandon beamed. Dave, less enthusiastically, gave a thumbs up. Mark didn't mind. Dave could've had a face of stone for all he cared. 

Ronnie didn't take notice of how well-composed Dave was because he was more focused on Brandon's smile. For a second, time stood still. Ronnie was drawn to the smile lines below Brandon's eyes and the way the corners of his lips upturned. He felt something stirring in the pit of his stomach.

He quickly brushed it off. He wouldn't think about it for another year or so. The reckoning would come later.

To change the subject in his brain, Ronnie spoke up again. "We'll have to exchange numbers then. Come this time next week I won't be working here. I earn more in tips drumming at the restaurant my mom works at than I do on a monthly salary here..."

"I completely forgot about that," Mark said, further demonstrating his at best, selective memory. "Only thing that sucks is I have to actually buy food to hang around and watch you. But this place is just musty."

"No one's putting a gun to your head," Ronnie replied, knowing full well Mark was going to ruthlessly show support. Mark was his cheerleader, in a way that was only slightly weird. "If you come while my mom's working, she'll probably give you a soda on the house or something. She likes you, for reasons unknown."

Dave handed Brandon a pen before he even asked for one. He wrote his number down on the bottom of Mark's algebra homework.

That was how the four boys met, as summer took its last breaths in the fall of 2005. It was during the following winter that their cards were dealt.

Not much changed in the time leading up to their sophomore year. Acquaintances quickly became good friends and they all spent most of their free time together. 

Mark got significantly taller, and he slowly but surely improved his math skills. Ronnie continued to hone his passion for drumming. Dave's mom let him drive her car, which felt like a right of passage for the young man who'd just gotten his license.

That was how Dave and Brandon got to school most mornings. Except for Fridays, when school would start later in the day and they'd walk instead. Occasionally, Dave would pick Mark and Ronnie up too and drop them off at their school. But Mark and Ronnie mostly preferred walking, like real men.

The air was frosty when Dave and Brandon stepped out. The warmth left Brandon's cheeks as the chill took its place, reddening his face. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. Both of them wore the designated red, knit sweaters over their white button-ups. For early winter, that was alright. Once it'd start snowing later in the season, they'd abandon their uniforms altogether. At the end of each week, they were allowed to wear whatever they wanted, as long as it fit the dress code. This made Brandon question the entire point of a uniform.

They walked up the stone steps to the entrance. Its arched doorway and stained glass cut-out above looked brilliantly elegant and out of place. The hallway was quiet. Most kids went to their classrooms or to the library when they arrived early. However, Brandon and Dave outright refused to carry all their textbooks in their backpacks. Stopping by their lockers was necessary.

Dave had mastered the coveted skill of 'being able to recall your locker combination off the top of your head' long ago. Brandon still had to check a slip of paper. He'd had the same locker since freshman year. Dave thought, as sophomores, they should start getting their shit together. Brandon insisted that his head was already full of tidbits about biology homework and famous golf players.

Dave had already managed to unlock his locker and was starting to shuffle his textbooks around. Brandon was only on the first digit when he got distracted by his phone going off. Instead of silencing it, Brandon took his phone out. He started typing out a reply to the message he'd received.

Dave looked away from his books, only to be disappointed with what he saw. "When one of the teachers tells the headmaster, I'll be the first to leave flowers on your grave. Who are you messaging anyway?"

"Make sure you clean the headstone every once in a while, too," Brandon said, returning his cellphone to a nondescript pocket in his bag. "Ronnie just sent me a message about this episode of a show that aired last night. I don't think you'd know it."

"Right. Leave it to the heathen to text you during school."

"Aren't your parents atheists?" Brandon whispered, joking. He already knew what Dave would say.

"No clue. But they've got some personal vendetta against public schools. That's stronger than religion to them."

Dave was about to say they should hurry up and get to homeroom so he could finish the math homework he'd neglected. This was when the school's football players came inside from their morning warm-ups and interrupted.

"Flowers! Got any bouquets for the team?" One of them called out. This particular member of the team was an airhead.

One of his teammates was already punching his shoulder, presumably for being an idiot. Brandon didn't look upset. In fact, he'd hardly seemed to notice. Dave interjected anyway.

"That was absolutely terrible. One of your worst by far," he cried back, cupping his hands around his mouth. He turned back to Brandon. "You think early morning runs bring his inner jerk out?"

"I think he picks on me because I hugged his girlfriend once," Brandon said thoughtfully, resting his chin on his fist. "In kindergarten."

The wretched idea to go ice skating could be attributed to Mark. Ronnie had no objections, but Dave thought it'd be lame. Brandon was terrified of bladed shoes and of ice and of falling. 

Mark was about to call this fifty-fifty split a hung jury when an epiphany hit him like a falling piano. He could just guilt trip them with charity. The profits from the ticket sales would be going to a children's hospital, and Mark knew his friends weren't heartless barbarians.

It worked.

The ice skating rink was outside a shopping center, with yellow Christmas lights wrapped around the blue barriers. 

They had made the mistake of walking instead of driving. It wasn't as if they had a choice, though. Dave's mom needed to use her car. Knowing that didn't make Brandon feel any better about the numbingly icy air. The mittens his mom had knit for him were doing their job, but Brandon still thought he was bound to get frostbite and die. 

Dave was already eyeing the hot chocolate stand. Mark and Ronnie had to practically drag him to the shoe booth. Unlike Mark and Ronnie, Brandon was fond of Dave's thought process. He was still terrified of breaking all his bones and figured if he prolonged the hot chocolate ordeal, it may get dark before they could get on the ice.

He used the same method in school. He took a long sip of water every time he got called on. This typically resulted in a conversation with the headmaster and a scolding email sent home to his parents.

Mark and Dave were able to recall their shoe sizes when asked by the man renting out the skates. Brandon and Ronnie had to pop their shoes off and check. Neither of them seemed to be receptive to Dave's sighs or the fact Mark was hiding his face behind his hands. This was the sort of thing Dave was referring to when he talked to Brandon about 'getting his shit together'. Brandon would just nod and smile as Dave's advice went in one ear and out the other. Ronnie knew how juvenile he was. He just didn't care.

Brandon twiddled his thumbs nervously. Meanwhile, Dave and Mark descended upon the ice right away. Dave was a little shaky, but workable. Mark's balance was impeccable. This made Brandon envious. He and Ronnie stood by the gate of the rink. Ronnie was waiting for Brandon to unlatch the lock or at least say something, but Brandon was paralyzed by fear.

"After you," Ronnie said, encouragingly. 

Brandon looked at Ronnie like a deer standing in headlights "I don't think I can."

Dave called out to the pair from the middle of the rink. Brandon was shivering and shaking too much to notice, but Ronnie heard him. He believed Dave said something along the lines of, "Cowards!"

"I'm not the best at skating, but I can keep myself upright. If you want, I'll hold your hand," Ronnie said.

Brandon looked at Dave and Mark. They were having the times of their lives in the center of the rink. "If you don't mind, that'd be a lifesaver. But let's stay near the barriers, please?"

"Naturally." Ronnie offered his hand.

Brandon took it. He watched as his life flashed before his eyes when Ronnie opened the gate.

Ronnie set one foot upon the ice, then the other, and gently tugged Brandon along with him. They were off to the races, but cautiously.

Dave had to squint to figure out why Brandon was seemingly trailing behind Ronnie. As it turned out, it was because Brandon was letting Ronnie drag him. Dave found Brandon's inability to keep his balance to be a disappointing development. Mark was happy Brandon made it out onto the rink. He had been starting to have some doubts.

As Ronnie promised, they stayed within an arm's length of the walls. In Dave's eyes, this negated the entire point of skating. Brandon was having a blast. He was glad to have not died yet. For the most part, he was staying upright steadily. Every time his knees began to buckle and he thought he'd fall, Ronnie's hand would tighten its grip and Ronnie would straighten his arm out, giving Brandon the support he needed.

After a minute, Dave realized Ronnie and Brandon's plans did not include moving anywhere near the center of the rink. Gracefully, he and Mark made their way over to them. When the mountain wouldn't move, one went to it instead.

"Brandon, what is this?" Dave asked. He pointed to Brandon, to the barriers, to the small space between Brandon and said walls, and back at Brandon again. Unfortunately, his point wasn't illustrated very well. His gesture was obscured by his winter gloves.

"I'm kinda like, petrified, of falling over and getting cut open by the blade of someone's skates. Or even falling through the ice."

Dave was about to slam Brandon with some cold hard logistics, but Ronnie interrupted first.

"Don't worry, I won't let you fall! No one's gonna cut you open. Not on my watch."

Brandon found those words to be comforting. He also feared Ronnie didn't fully grasp the severity of the situation.

"I don't think that's even possible. There's hardly anyone else here. And the ice is far too thick to crack, let alone have any unfrozen water beneath our feet," Mark said.

"Not possible? Is that a challenge? Watch me," Dave said. Brandon did not find this type of confidence to be inspiring.

Brandon asked Dave and Mark how balancing came so naturally to them.

Dave responded, "my mom used to take me roller skating."

That was a plausible explanation for Dave. But Mark's parents, after seeing a million scraped knees and broken arms, were wary of any potentially dangerous physical activity. They didn't encourage Mark's more daring endeavors. Brandon's brows furrowed as he tried to figure out how Mark would've been as well-practiced as Dave was. The thought distracted him from his impending doom.

Dave and Mark followed Brandon and Ronnie for a while, but Dave needed something a little more his speed. He and Mark started racing back and forth across the rink. There were many things in life Brandon was willing to try. This was not one of them. He'd already physically stepped out onto the ice, which was enough of trying new things for one day.

By the time the sky started to get dark, Brandon's legs felt more accustomed to the strange, unfamiliar weight displacement of wearing the bladed shoes. He thought if he really tried he could almost make it a few feet by himself. But just as he was getting used to skates, he also got used to how Ronnie's hand felt in his. Even through thick mittens, he could feel the suggestion of warmth. That may have been from how tightly their hands were interlocked. No matter what, it was comfortable. Brandon liked this. His fear had subsided, like harsh waves at sea slowly calming and retreating. The sound of alarm bells ringing in his head had been replaced by the faint, busy chatter far away. 

The sound of blades trailing across the ice no longer sparked fear.

As the rink operators got ready to close up for the night, Brandon's three friends decided their legs were aching and they'd had their fill. For Dave, this meant finally getting his coveted hot chocolate. For Brandon, this meant he'd been released from the hell that was treading on ice. He felt a bit braver now and since he didn't lose any limbs, he didn't regret it.

Mark tugged his skates off before anyone else had the chance to sit down. He returned them. While Dave, Ronnie, and Brandon were fumbling to untie their shoes, Mark bought four cups of hot chocolate from the nice lady at the stand. 

When it came to getting one's shit together, Dave greatly envied Mark. Mark was efficient and coherent. And Dave was struggling to remove his ice skates without tearing his socks off.

Brandon took his mittens off so he could feel the warmth of the cup. This was counterproductive in actually keeping his hands from getting cold. He still felt and enjoyed the heat.

In the back of his head, he wished he was still holding Ronnie's hand. He tried to shut that nagging thought up.

Dave and Ronnie got into a heated discussion about the complex nature of the 'correct' way to hang a roll of toilet paper. Ronnie strongly believed that the only way was 'over'. Dave found 'under' to be more convenient. Brandon and Mark silently watched and listened, as they so often did.

After remembering it wasn't just a flashy hand warmer, Brandon took a sip of his hot chocolate. It burnt his tongue. He promptly forgot about the concept of locking hands with Ronnie. It wasn't the pain, it wasn't that bad, but it shocked him. 

The drink was decadent and rich. Brandon would've known this, had he given it the chance to cool. He lost his appetite for the night.

Staring at Ronnie for fifteen minutes didn't do Brandon any favors in filing away that persistent thought. The more his subconscious mulled it over, the more his stomach turned.

Dave and Ronnie's debate died down, ending one-to-three. Dave still stood by his position. Brandon and Mark had been convinced by Ronnie's argument that toilet paper should be flipped with its end far away from the wall. As he tried to think of a better debate strategy, Dave finished his hot chocolate. He singlehandedly decided for the rest of the group that it was time to start walking home.

They walked to Brandon's neighborhood first. As Brandon walked up the steps, Ronnie called out to him.

"Have a good weekend!"

Brandon felt butterflies tearing through his stomach.

He unlocked the front door, bid his parents the necessary 'hellos' and 'goodnights', and went upstairs. He stepped out of his shoes and sighed. After undressing, he collapsed into bed. 

He stared at the ceiling as his mind raced. The thoughts would not stop. He was too tired to fight them but awake enough to think them. He flipped his pillows over and over again, trying to find that perfect spot, to no avail. 

Eventually, the fatigue washed over the anxiety. He faded into sleep.

When he woke up on Saturday morning to the sun shining through this window, he'd forgotten what he was so worried about the night before.


	2. Heart-Shaped Box

For the remainder of winter in 2006, there was no more ice skating for Brandon. The need to fear falling through the ice was gone. 

Without having to hold Ronnie's hand just to stay upright, Brandon wouldn't be reminded of the stirring in his stomach, the clenching of his chest, or how his feet burned that night. For having been outside in the cold air, on ice, he sure recalled feeling like he'd been standing on hot coals. And his cheeks had been on fire, too. 

He wouldn't admit it. He chalked it up to his face becoming flushed, just like anyone else standing out in the chill. It was the excitement, really, and the nerves, of sparks from something unfamiliar. But he blamed the weather.

Brandon was, of course, reminded of all this on Tuesday morning as he got ready to go to school. He'd managed to shove all those feelings away for a good couple of days, and then it came crashing down. As if a chandelier had fallen through the ceiling in his brain. He'd been reminded by the singlehandedly stupidest thing. The receipt for his rental skates on his dresser. Here's what was what, he decided: Ronnie was his best friend, and best friends were not supposed to feel this way about one another. After getting dressed, he shut the drawer and similarly shut the box in his brain labeled 'Incorrect Feelings' closed.

He should've gotten a better lock. Those things tended to explode without much warning.

Brandon managed to trudge through the school day without any notable despair. He focused on math and Shakespeare instead of the personal dilemma he had going on inside his head. During a passing period when Dave asked Brandon if he was alright, Brandon shrugged, 'yeah,' and this was true. He was perfectly fine, or he would be. 

These sorts of things, he believed, came and went. Emphasis on the 'went' part. His brain would go back to its regularly scheduled programming eventually. Back to being composed of CDs and action toys and half-assed science homework.

The thoughts he'd shoved away (in the 'Incorrect Feelings' box) slowly subsided how hard they banged on the lid to be let out. By the time the bell rang at three o'clock, Brandon was at ease.

He walked home on his own. Dave had a project he urgently needed to complete, Mark was covering for his friend at the gas station again, and he assumed Ronnie would be hanging out with Mark. Brandon looked forward to relaxing at home after an at best, odd day. 

The first thing he heard once he walked through the door was his mom asking him to clean up the yard. He walked into the kitchen.

"Why can't Shane do it?" Brandon groaned, knowing full well none of his siblings could do it.

"I'm not going to ask him when there's no good reason you can't do it," she replied with her hands on her hips.

Brandon saw that one coming from a mile away. All of his siblings were working college students. His mom was never going to let his significantly older brother do yard work while Brandon sat around in his room.

"I had plans with my friends, though." This was a lie.

Mrs. Flowers got back to rolling out balls of cookie dough. "Well, you can invite them over and you'll be rewarded with warm chocolate chip cookies. And hot chocolate."

Brandon cringed at the hot chocolate offer. He still hadn't regained his taste for it after Friday night. He was going to make a comment about child labor, but he'd already pushed enough buttons.

He dropped his backpack on his bedroom floor. After sighing approximately fifteen times, that's a modest guess, Brandon picked up the plastic, creme-colored telephone. He wrapped the cord around his pinkie and felt chills. A wave of nervousness washed over him, from the top of his head to the balls of his feet.

This was when he realized spending alone time with Ronnie wouldn't help him keep his feelings inside. But now he had a front to keep up with his mom, and it was just yard work.

Brandon hadn't convinced himself it'd be smooth sailing, but he punched the numbers into the keypad anyway. He counted the seconds until Ronnie picked up. One... two... His heart dropped.

_"Hello? If you're looking for my mom, she's working..."_

"No, Ronnie, it's just me. Don't you ever check who's calling? My mom wants me to clean up the yard. I was wondering if you'd help. She's making cookies as payment."

_"Sounds like child labor to me,"_ Ronnie joked. _"Yeah, alright. I'll be over."_

"I would've said the same thing. Thanks."

He started to wish he was right about Ronnie hanging out with Mark... It'd be fine.

Ronnie biked to Brandon's house in less than twenty minutes. An impressive feat, considering multiple reckless drivers almost ran him over. 

When Ronnie showed up on Brandon's doorstep, Brandon could see he was shivering. This disappointed him greatly. Ronnie was in desperate need of a new coat, but all he was wearing was a sweater. There was no shame in lending Ronnie a nicer jacket, so before they went outside again, Brandon grabbed one.

There was a crisp layer of snow over the grass. The pair realized this would be a major pain in the ass. The snow would be the least of their worries. Their shoes would get soaked and cold, but there were also fallen branches to throw away and leaves to rake. Brandon started to feel guilty about enlisting Ronnie's help. This was not going to be enjoyable, or anything other than dismay-inducing. Brandon sighed, but Ronnie had no complaints. He was happy to help.

"What exactly does your mom want us to do?"

Brandon considered this question with great thought. "She didn't say. I figure if we work for an hour or two and then walk back inside she'll decide we've done enough damage."

Ronnie frowned with his arms at his sides. He had a large green trash bag in one hand and a shovel in the other. What he was supposed to do with either of these things, he had no clue. Brandon started picking fallen tree branches off the ground while Ronnie shoveled snow. There wasn't that much and it'd likely snow again in a few days, so Ronnie thought this was pointless.

"You know, shoveling snow can kill you!" Brandon said. Only four minutes had passed and he'd already decided he was bored.

Ronnie looked up. "Bullshit."

"It's true! Something to do with getting your heart rate up in the cold."

"I'll be alright." Ronnie got back to shoveling.

"I don't want you to die," Brandon continued anyway. He knelt down and started packing snow in his hands. It was clumsy work with his thick mittens but he did it quickly. "You know what can't kill you, Ronnie? Snowballs."

Brandon had a strong arm but a terrible aim. He intended to hit Ronnie's shoulder or thereabouts, but Ronnie looked up with the worst possible timing and the snowball hit his unsheltered neck.

"You bastard!" Ronnie yelped. He laughed, but getting knocked in the throat left him gasping for air.

"Sorry!" Brandon was unsure of what to do next.

Ronnie's laughter didn't help matters in the breathing department. The back of his throat burned. He let himself down onto the ground slowly as he clenched his stomach. Brandon could hear the near-choking stop, only to be replaced with laughter and pure exhilaration.

Brandon walked over. "Ronnie, it's not funny! I feel bad... And you're gonna get your jeans wet."

"Alright, help me up then." This request was quite possibly Ronnie Vannucci's biggest mistake of the year. It's also how the lock on the box in Brandon's brain was popped open.

Brandon outstretched his hand, and Ronnie gripped it. Too tightly. The weight and action of pulling someone forward combined with the wet ground caused Brandon to slip. Ronnie tried to keep Brandon upright by grabbing a fistful of his jacket, but Ronnie's foot was latched around Brandon's ankle and they fell together. When Brandon's head hit the ground, he was grateful for two things. One, he didn't fall on concrete and split his head open. Two, he'd fallen in a patch Ronnie had already shoveled. Instead of hitting the snow, he was laying in wet grass. That wasn't much better. He didn't have the time to pull his thoughts together before a series of further mistakes were made.

Ronnie was laying on top of Brandon. He put his palms next to either side of Brandon's torso in an attempt to regain his composure and get up. Unfortunately, Brandon was attempting a similar maneuver at the same time. Brandon arched his back and started to prop himself up on his hands as if he was going to sit up. The combined motions of Ronnie pulling himself forward and Brandon holding himself upwards led to Brandon's pelvis pushing up against Ronnie's crotch. 

The friction lasted briefly, but it was enough. Ronnie scooted backwards before he'd processed what happened. Brandon was well aware of it. He felt that fire in his feet again, and yearning, and heart-stopping, ice-cold guilt. His breathing hitched and he hoped his panic wasn't obvious. Ronnie was now sitting on Brandon's thighs, right below his hips, which was not much of an improvement. Brandon laid back against the ground. Ronnie relaxed his arms.

Brandon looked at the cloudy, gray sky. He thought a lot of things in a short span of time. He'd been torn in half. One part of him wanted to touch Ronnie like that again, with more intention. The other half of him wanted to be torched in gasoline while he held a lit match.

Ronnie, on the other hand, stared at Brandon's face and thought about not much at all. His friend looked sad, though, and that made his heart sink. They sat in silence for what felt like forever. It was more like a minute. Brandon's heart was pounding. Ronnie's heartbeat was delayed and slowed. Frozen paranoia in its own right.

"Ronnie," Brandon said, "maybe you should get off of me."

"Right." Ronnie carefully but quickly clambered off the grass. 

Once back on his feet, Ronnie cleared his throat. He offered Brandon a helping hand. Brandon took it.

Brandon shook his head in an attempt to dry his now damp hair. "Sorry about the snowball hitting your neck," he apologized sheepishly.

"I'm no sore loser," Ronnie replied.

Brandon smiled at that. He was relieved Ronnie wasn't disgusted with or mad at him. But still, his chest felt hollow. 

The rest of their work was done quietly. Ronnie was walking on eggshells. He didn't feel as shaken about what happened, he hardly thought anything of it, but he could tell Brandon was uneasy. Brandon, on the contrary, was worried he'd push Ronnie away or that he'd freaked him out. Brandon feared he'd blow too hard on a house made of cards. But Ronnie wasn't going anywhere.

Brandon tried to tell himself things could stay the same, but it was too late. Some idiot unlocked the box, and butterflies were begging to break out of their cocoons.

That night, Brandon wasn't able to ease his racing mind. 

The shower's tap was the hottest it'd go. He keenly shampooed his hair. There'd be steam on the mirror when he got out and his skin was scalding, but the feeling temporarily took his thoughts away from Ronnie. 

And there it was. He was reminded again. His legs wobbled and then he thought about how his knees buckled under Ronnie's weight, the firmness of Ronnie's hand on his shoulder, the grinding of jean against jean. Brandon ran his hands over his face. He felt like screaming. The shame burned red hot. He turned the faucet to cold. The freezing water made his head pound, enough to plug the stream of his thoughts. He was shivering, but it was better than feeling anything else.

Warmth returned to Brandon by the time he crawled into bed. He'd stayed up late, talking on the phone with Dave. After, he sat quietly on his bedroom floor. 

When he crawled into bed, he was exhausted and thought he'd fall right asleep. He was sorely mistaken. As it turned out, warm blankets were the perfect breeding ground for 'Incorrect Feelings' to start seeping out. He had to stop calling them that, though. 

Brandon being in only his underwear didn't help matters. In between consciousness and sleep, Brandon pictured a vague image. It was fuzzy with an orange filter all over it. The image seemed to contain two people. He heard the faint murmur of someone groaning, no, moaning. This was a pleasurable picture, not a grotesque one. He inhaled sharply. The two bodies were in a similar position as Brandon and Ronnie had been in the snow, but this was a continuous, deliberate movement. The two figures were hardly clothed and they were connected at the lips, kissing passionately. This was when Brandon thought long and hard about what their faces looked like.

It was him and Ronnie. He wanted to rip himself apart. He was angry, now, at himself. He wasn't having much success pushing his feelings away and now he was too tired to try. He succumbed to the warm orange-colored imagining. It played over and over again in his head. Hands in between thighs, lips against necks and chests, and Brandon trying to suffocate himself with a pillow.

His two halves fought one another until he finally dozed off. Only in sleep did the raging, crashing waves ease onto the calm sands. Brandon dreamt of the orange picture. Softly and in its entirety.

For the rest of the week, Brandon woke up hating himself every morning. Always due to some variation of the same recurring dream. 

On Thursday night, he didn't dream at all. But he hardly slept either, which left him in the dark staring at his ceiling fan, counting the rhythm of the gentle rain. When his alarm clock rang on Friday morning, he was already awake. He didn't bother hitting snooze.

The rain froze over the driveway. When Brandon went downstairs for breakfast, he was informed by his dad that it was his responsibility to salt the ice. _'Champ, since you're up early anyway'._

Brandon ate half a slice of toast, without butter, and grabbed his coat off the hanger. It was black with a fluffy hood, and it was also one size too big. He had a shovel, a hefty bag of road salt, and the pounding of his thoughts up against his skull.

Clouds blocked the sun again. The air was so chilled, Brandon could see his own breath. 

The tediousness of pouring the salt and shoveling the snow was soothing. He stood in front of the shoddy work he'd done, waiting for the ice to melt so he could get rid of the rock salt and pretend the ice had never been there at all. 

This was easy. Brandon was starting to realize most things were not. It was nice to be able to control something. He could exhale deeply and see the condensation in the air, too, or he could hold his breath and see its absence. He got down on one knee, packed some snow down in between his hands, and threw the snowball at the garage door. It smashed to bits.

And then Brandon thought about tripping over and accidentally getting too close and bad dreams that felt good or good dreams that felt bad. Once he realized he was thinking at all, he was bothered with himself. The anger had settled and crumbled away, and Brandon was left with what remained. The shame that wrapped its arms around him, and the outstretched hand of curiosity. 

As much as he hated it, as much as it mortified him, he was curious. And when he stared at the snow on the ground and the birds up in the sky, in the quietness of the street and his mind, he may just admit it to himself. There were things he wanted to know, like how it felt to hold a certain someone's hand, without mittens and gloves in the way. And he needed to know what it felt like to lay with that someone, preferably without jeans obstructing. Would the friction last, and what about the numbing warmness in his feet? And then Brandon shut himself up again. He facepalmed and knew he was on fire again. 

He tried to shove the wonderings away. That was enough curiosity for one day, but wisps of the idea stayed in the back of his mind.

That would be good enough. As long as he could shovel without falling apart from embarrassment.

His work was complete, and he admired it half-heartedly. Admittedly, he'd done a terrible job. He hadn't left the salt long enough to melt the ice in a certain few patches, but no one would slip and fall on their neck. It was passable. He didn't have the time to fix it. Right as he placed the shovel and bag of road salt back in their rightful positions in the shed, Dave pulled up in his mom's car, stopping just short of the driveway.

"You're here early," Brandon called out.

Dave rolled his window down. "You're also up early! It's like serendipity, or whatever it's called."

"If you were here like ten minutes earlier, you could've spared me some effort."

Dave made an active decision to not ask what this work was that Brandon spoke of. "Just get in the car. The heater isn't working all that great."

Brandon followed Dave's instructions.

"By the way," Dave said as he turned the steering wheel, "we're going to 7/11 today. Mark's friend told him they're giving away free slushies today."

The mere idea of slushies made Brandon's teeth ache. The time came for him to make a decision. It wasn't about Slush Puppies or shaved ice, though. He'd been thinking that he should maybe put some space in between him and Ronnie. He hated the concept, but he was becoming more and more convinced that he might do something he'd regret. And he'd somehow talked himself into believing distance wouldn't make the heart grow fonder.

It'd be easy to say, ' _Sorry, got plans with the family'._ But, for whatever reason, he didn't. Maybe it was the fear of breaking what had become a ritualistic habit, meeting with his best friends every Friday. Perhaps brain freeze wasn't so bad after all. And certain yearnings must be at least entertained if nothing else. Every itch has gotta be scratched, a minimum of one time.

"Alright. Sounds good to me." _But what about the car?_ Brandon thought.

"And we'll leave the car in the parking lot so we can walk," Dave said as if he'd read Brandon's mind. "It'll be a bit warmer later, so."

Certain disappointments were discovered. Namely, the whole free slushy thing was 'at participating stores'. Their Henderson gas station just so happened to be participating, but 'free, excluding taxes' _._ Mark sighed and said they shouldn't cough up the two dollars plus a pair of dimes, out of principal. Dave had no qualms with selling his soul to the machine that was capitalism and covered everyone.

Brandon didn't care enough about economics to understand why this outright fraudulence bothered Mark, but he enjoyed the raspberry flavor. Mark had a sour taste left in his mouth after the whole experience, but that may have been a result of his taste for green apple.

The four boys were sitting on the sidewalk. Brandon wasn't fond of leaving his legs out in the road, because a stray car could drive the wrong way and leave him severely disfigured. But he was preoccupied now. He and Ronnie had hardly said anything thus far, let alone directly to each other. As expected, Dave spent the entire walk to the gas station rambling about his least favorite teacher and how he was always picked on. Brandon contemplated supplementing Dave's innocent story with the fact he'd thrown a paper airplane across the classroom. He decided Dave's otherwise sacred image was worth protecting. And then after that, Mark introduced Brandon to the concept of 'bait and switch' advertising.

"Mark, I think I don't actually care about 'unethical' business practices," Brandon concluded.

"You're just a slave to their private enterprising," Mark said, shaking his head.

"I'm gonna be honest. This entire conversation has felt like watching Mark throw darts at a dictionary with his eyes closed," Ronnie said, at last.

Brandon and Dave both laughed at the visual. Dave actually almost dropped his slushy, which would've been a tragedy. Brandon hid his face in his hands, which were unadorned by mittens. It'd been surprisingly warm for a winter's day in Nevada. Just like Dave said.

Brandon didn't bother selling himself the lie that his blushing was a side effect of the slight chill. He knew why his face was red. His attention had been redirected to Ronnie, which brought about thoughts he couldn't dismiss. 

He noticed Ronnie's knit sweater was clementine orange, which was a lovely acknowledgment from coincidence. Brandon considered he may be glad to see Ronnie for completely platonic reasons. They could talk about that show they both liked. And Ronnie, though quiet at times, always had funny things to say. Plus, he'd buy Brandon caffeinated coca-cola, the kind his parents wouldn't. Caffeine-free Coke never tasted the same.

They were sitting on the curb in this order, from left to right: first was Ronnie, then Brandon, Dave, and then Mark last. For some reason, unbeknownst to Brandon and maybe even God Himself, Ronnie wrapped his arm around Brandon's shoulder. Brandon dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand. 

What was originally a friendly touch now had five hundred new connotations. The butterflies were ripping their way through Brandon's stomach again. He teetered back and forth on a fine line between feeling giddy to feeling nauseous.

There was a difference between sitting next to someone and sitting next to someone while they held you. The fact this someone was Ronnie made Brandon's heart soar.

Brandon was knee-deep in a pile of shit. As far as he could tell, there was no straightforward way to go about this. His own judgment was too clouded to gauge if Ronnie reciprocated his feelings to any degree. He vowed to try and figure out anyway.

Mark finished his capitalist slushy and decided he was bored with sitting by the road. "What now?"

"Well, I kinda wanted to make a snow angel and roll around in the snow," Dave said, looking around. "But there's not enough snow." Dave looked thoroughly disappointed as he made this observation.

"Right, let me get this straight," Mark replied. "You wanted to lay in the snow, that's not even from your own lawn? That's unsanitary, Dave. And your hair would be a mess."

Dave was in dire need of a hair cut; It'd gotten to be far past his shoulders. He was putting it off because his regular hairdresser always cut it too short and managed to clip his ears while she was at it. She was also very chatty. Dave may have been talkative but he was easily overwhelmed.

Dave nodded. "I'd wear a hat. And take a shower afterwards, while wearing the dirty clothes."

Mark politely refrained from speaking further. And then he was saved by the bell. Sort of. A chime went off signaling he'd gotten a new text message on his cellphone. His mom and dad would both be working late at the hospital so he had to make dinner. The obligatory goodbyes and see-you-laters were made, and he walked home alone.

With Mark's anti-snow angel agenda out of the way, Dave suggested going to his house. His dreams could then come to fruition. 

This was less of a suggestion and more of a 'we're going'. Brandon considered explaining to Dave that the layer of snow on his lawn would be too thin if it were still there whatsoever. It'd been a warm afternoon. Brandon decided against this. Certain dreams weren't made to be fucked with.

As the three moseyed away from the downtown area, Ronnie kept his arm around Brandon. Dave and Ronnie seemingly thought nothing about this was out of the ordinary. And they didn't, because it wasn't. 

Brandon's heart continued to sway. It went from racing like a jackal to beating slowly. On one hand, Brandon found the weight and warmth, the closeness, to be endearing. On the other, scrubbed as hard as he might've, Brandon still couldn't wash away the citrus-colored thoughts. The rational and logical parts of his brain had been scribbled over with an orange marker. His heart told him to go with how he felt, but it was beating so sporadically he knew it couldn't be trusted.

"And what'd she say then, Brandon?" Dave asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Dave and Ronnie both stopped walking to give Brandon the room to reply. 

This must've been an important part of whatever story Dave was telling. Brandon blinked, twice and hard. He had no clue as to what was happening.

"What?"

"I'm telling Ronnie about the time our math teacher called me a heretic, remember? Last year."

"Right," Brandon said, vaguely recalling that specific incident. It was difficult. Dave got berated by his teachers often. "She told you she'd call the office, who'd tell the headmaster who'd call your parents. And then you told her to go right ahead. Your parents wouldn't care."

"Yeah! But I was kinda wrong. My dad took my Nintendo 64 away for the weekend."

"Why?" Ronnie asked. As far as he knew, Dave's parents were lenient with punishments.

"He didn't really care about me stapling a _Mr. Roger's Neighborhood_ puppet to the ceiling. He was just upset I kept getting in trouble."

"It doesn't help that you'd told the headmaster you'd roll cigarettes with the paper from your bible two weeks earlier," Brandon said.

"That got me suspended for three days but my dad thought it was hilarious," Dave said.

"And I never even heard about it," Ronnie said. These stories made him respect Dave greatly.

"That's because his dad took his phone away too," Brandon said. "And you know how it is with Dave. After two days have passed, it's old news."

Make that two minutes. Dave talked about how badly he wanted a dog (and how badly his parents would never let that happen). Ronnie talked about a particularly generous tipper from the weekend before ( _my drumming wasn't even_ that _good that day!_ He stressed). Then Brandon mentioned his mom's new hobby of vacuuming early in the morning on Saturdays. 'Early' was actually 'nine in the morning', but Brandon slept late. 

In any case, the conversation swayed and changed, and Brandon quickly pulled himself together. In fact, he was even able to simply enjoy the way Ronnie's touch felt. He was too busy listening to Dave's deep thoughts on how arbitrary math was to worry. The overwhelming rush of guilt and panic may be back later, but for now, he was able to enjoy himself. He had new, exciting feelings for Ronnie, and when he stepped back, it wasn't something to be ashamed of.

That may have been teenage lust or it may have been stupidity. Regardless, the following behavior was certainly a result of stupidity. Not from Brandon, but from Dave.

The moment the three boys stepped foot on Dave's driveway, Dave put his game face on. 

His driveway had been salted. Brandon wondered if Dave too had the responsibility of doing it. There was still a thin layer of glorious snow on the lawn. Dave entrusted Ronnie with the duty of holding his backpack. God forbid the cheap backpack he'd gotten for twenty bucks in third grade become tarnished. His jacket, however, was fair game.

Ronnie and Brandon stood beside each other and stared in what was either awe or dismay as Dave lowered himself onto the ground. Brandon missed the weight of Ronnie's arm around him. 

Dave let his back fall against the snow and began to spread his arms and legs out. Brandon looked at Ronnie, and then at the sky. It felt inappropriate to watch. Like he'd walked in on something private. Whatever spiritual experience Dave was having with the snow made Brandon feel second-hand shame. After a minute, which was far too long, Dave decided his work was finished and stood up to admire a shape that vaguely resembled his silhouette. It sure as hell wasn't an angel. There were ugly patches of grass sticking through. Clumps of snow were entangled in Dave's curly, shoulder-length hair.

"It's God awful—sorry, blasphemy. What on this wretched earth made you do this?" Brandon asked. He'd anticipated it, watched it happen, and still couldn't believe his eyes. He may have felt better if the angel wasn't butt ugly.

"Never got to make a snow angel as a kid," Dave shrugged back.

"Your parents had good reasons for not letting you." Even Ronnie was appalled.

Dave's front door swung open, making way for his confused mother. She was wearing a tan coat, blue jeans, and a pair of leather boots.

"Dave, what are you doing?" She motioned to his hair and then to his snow 'angel'. It was only then that she noticed his two friends.

"I made a snow angel!" Dave was beaming. Evidently, he was pleased with himself. "What are you doing?"

" _I'm_ going out to the store," she replied, locking the door behind her. "And _you're_ getting a haircut tomorrow. It's gotten out of hand, honey. And when your friends go home, you can shovel the rest of the snow and erase your... mistake."

Dave groaned, brushing the snowflakes out of his hair. He didn't really care about having to destroy his snow angel; It was the journey and experience, not the destination or end product. But he wasn't mentally prepared to go through another traumatic haircut. By now, his hairdresser must've owed him thousands in therapy fees.

"What do you need a dog for, Dave? You already look like one," Ronnie said.

That made Dave's mom laugh.

"Maybe I'll get my hair bleached," Dave said once she had driven away.

"Christ, Dave, no!" Brandon didn't bother apologizing for sacrilege this time.

"He could do worse," Ronnie said.

"You're no one to talk, Brandon," Dave replied. "You've got streaks of blonde hair."

That was true. Brandon had a couple of stripes of blond hair on the underside of his hair, neatly hidden by the rest of his short brown hair. One of his sisters had a phase where she thought she'd be a hairdresser. Brandon was her guinea pig. The dream quickly died when she almost fried part of his hair. It ended up looking fine, good, even. But Brandon had been permanently turned off from the idea of bleaching his hair.

"And you know how terrible it went," Brandon said.

"Sure," said Dave, "but your hair was bleached by your untrained sister in a tiny bathroom, and she was probably using an empty, unwashed yogurt container to hold the... whatever it's called." The phrase Dave was looking for was 'toner and developer mixture'. It was not on the tip of his tongue.

Neither Brandon nor Ronnie had any rebuttals to make in response, so the three boys went inside. Naturally, Dave proposed they play video games. True to form, Dave beat the other two in _Mario Cart 64_ without mercy. Three times in a row. He wasn't humble about it either. Usually, Mark would be able to put him in his place, but Mark wasn't there. After a couple of rounds, Brandon and Ronnie sort of mutually decided they should let Dave get to shoveling the lawn's snow before it got dark.

They walked to a park near Brandon's house. This was somewhat of a ritual between Brandon and Ronnie. Whenever they hung out alone, they seemed to gravitate to merry go rounds and swingsets. They took themselves less seriously than Mark and Dave did. For Mark, this was understandable. With parents as busy as his were, he had to carry his weight. Dave, as boyish and prone to tomfoolery as he was, felt he had a certain reputation to uphold. Brandon didn't care where he fell among social ranks. Ronnie was a people pleaser, for his friends and mom. Everyone else was irrelevant.

Brandon stood on a swing. Ronnie stood a good four feet away in front of him. Far enough to avoid being hit by the swaying of the swing, close enough to catch Brandon if he were to fall. The soles of Brandon's boots glided ever so slightly against the rubber seat.

"How's the weather up there?" Ronnie teased.

"Oh, it's stunning. You'll never know." The sky was dark grey and the clouds obstructed the faint sun. It was nothing to see.

"Sounds like I'm missing out." Ronnie sounded genuinely sad, he was good at that, but he smiled as the words rolled off his tongue.

Brandon felt fondness pulling, no, tugging at his heartstrings again. The need to move towards Ronnie sparked in his chest, but he stood still. 

Whether it was rationality or cowardice, he couldn't decide, but he knew it was safe. There was only one way to know if the iron was hot, and that was to touch it. Brandon so desperately wanted to press his palm up against it, but if it burned him, the blowback would be harsh. Friendships would fall apart, and oh, the shame. It'd be aplenty. Brandon frowned at the thought, and Ronnie noticed.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

"Yeah, just thinkin'," Brandon lied.

If this went haywire, yes, his friends would never look at him the same way. The humiliation may be too much to handle. And yet nonetheless, he pondered what it'd be like to feel the heat of the iron. Just to brush the tips of his fingers across the metal. Regrettably, there was more at stake than the burns an iron could leave.

Brandon felt the urge to be walking again. The sun was setting, and his mom would want him home soon. He stepped off the swing. 

Ronnie didn't notice Brandon had intentionally gotten off and thought he'd slipped. This resulted in Brandon practically landing into Ronnie's arms. Brandon was stepping on Ronnie's toes, but Ronnie didn't mind. His sneakers were either really thick or he was just concerned about Brandon. 

Of course, by now, Ronnie realized what'd actually happened. Brandon wasn't in any hurry to back away. Instead, he stepped back so he wasn't standing on Ronnie's feet, and wrapped his arms around Ronnie, pulling him into a bear hug. His head was resting against Ronnie's shoulder. All he could see was Ronnie's neck and the orange of his sweater.

"You know, Brandon, you're my best friend."

Brandon's eyes fluttered shut. He could hear the pumping of Ronnie's heart. Hearing those words while being so close was the closest to heaven he'd ever felt. He wished he could freeze that moment in time. And the words sounded so natural coming out of Ronnie's mouth, so lovely, without a second thought. Its effect on Brandon was invaluable.

"You're my best friend, too," Brandon murmured. Brandon spoke so quietly, like he'd mostly been saying it to himself. It didn't matter whether or not Ronnie heard what Brandon said. He'd felt it, and that was more than enough.

The two stood in their embrace for a while. Brandon was tired and felt as his legs slowly held him up less and less strongly until eventually, Ronnie was the one holding him upright. Brandon wished he were in bed. This warmth, this simple intimacy, made him feel complete and safe.

"Your mom probably wants you home by now, eh?" Ronnie asked. He must've heard Brandon's thoughts.

"Yeah," Brandon said, unentangling himself from Ronnie's arms. He yawned. "Will you walk me home, though?"

"Of course. Like always."

Ritualistic creatures of habit.

And so Ronnie did. The sun set early that evening, and despite all the thick clouds, it was evident as ever. Ronnie walked Brandon to his doorstep, as was customary, and Brandon noticed something new. His mom had already hung the mistletoe above the door. Brandon had the urge to kiss Ronnie, hard, and he felt a twinge of regret when he didn't.

It was an interesting idea. He'd have to try it sometime, but it would have to wait. An entire year.


	3. I Will Take Whatever You Give Me

The winter of 2006 died as spring began to bloom, and Brandon decided his inaction was cowardice. Life only came around once. It didn't make sense to waste it.

Moments that made his cheeks burn and his heart soar occurred in abundance, but he kept those feelings to himself. The heat of summer made this more easily said than done. As time passed without the coziness of wintertime, he got used to it. 

If nothing else, it made things more exciting. Exciting was the wrong word. Try nerve-wracking.

And then the fall of 2007 rolled around, like a tricky hand of cards in a game of poker. Suddenly, the mental barrier Brandon managed to build up came crashing down. Again came the stream of intense, heavy feelings. He tried to shove his thoughts back in a box, but it was like a dam that'd given in. The water was out, and there was no putting it back in.

He really did give it effort. He paid extra attention whenever his parents took him to church (which wasn't every Sunday) and he put half his allowance in the donation box they'd pass around. 

The outcome was this: Brandon had a stockpile of jokes and song lyrics to keep on loop in his head when he got bored, and he couldn't afford this snazzy jacket he wanted when it went on sale. Despite his best efforts, this was an animal that couldn't be tamed. At least, not like this. There was no way it'd be getting back in its cage.

So on to the next best thing. Plan B. Except he originally had no Plan B. But it was becoming more and more obvious that there was only one way this could go: Brandon had to play the cards he'd been dealt. He couldn't restrain a lion altogether, but he could keep 'em on a short leash. Yeah, a short leash. Give the lion an inch and they'll take a mile.

The ball started rolling right under Brandon's nose. It was innocent enough. Brandon's mom offhandedly invited Ronnie to the Flowers' Thanksgiving dinner.

"Say, what are all you kids doing for your break?" She'd asked a week prior while Brandon and his three friends sat in the kitchen. Brandon wondered if she knew how demeaning it was to call a bunch of teenagers, _young men,_ 'kids'.

"My parents and I are going to Reno for some concert," Dave sighed.

"Reno's nice, jackass. Long drive though," Mark said. "My parents are gonna be off work, so we'll make dinner, I guess. I don't really care, as long as we watch _A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving_. It's only right."

"My mom's gonna be working, so I'll be home alone. I'll try not to set the place on fire," Ronnie said.

This did not sit well with Mrs. Flowers. "How about you have dinner with us? If your mom's alright with it."

Brandon smiled. He'd have to thank her later.

"Okay!" Ronnie beamed.

And so it was set in stone. Ronnie felt like the luckiest guy on the block, and Mrs. Flowers was happy to have him around. 

All of Brandon's siblings said they might stop by, but they were doing some weird thing called 'Friendsgiving'. In other words, they weren't coming.

A couple of miscellaneous neighbors came as well. It became a small, casual party of sorts. 

The tablecloth was the color of tangerines, cluttered with tiny pumpkins, fake candles, and plates. Glasses were filled with red wine (Brandon and Ronnie had cranberry juice instead, which was just fine with them). The indulgent smell spanned from the kitchen to the living room to the dining table. The adults, of which there were five in total, talked about things Brandon couldn't care less about, like politics and traveling and whose boss was cheating on his wife.

Ronnie nudged Brandon's foot under the table. Brandon nudged back, mindlessly. 

This pattern repeated for a number of minutes. It occurred to Brandon that he was playing a round of footsie at the dinner table, on Thanksgiving, with his best friend. At the time, this seemed rather funny. He looked down, trying to hide the fact he was blushing. The dim lighting helped him out.

"What's so funny, sport?" His dad asked.

"Nothin'. Just thinking about what I'm thankful for."

"Right on, sport." One of the neighbors, this time.

Technically, Brandon hadn't lied.

The conversation about football carried on. Brandon tuned it out.

He dropped his left hand at his side, the one closest to Ronnie, just to see what'd happen. 

This motion went unnoticed by the adults at the table, but Ronnie saw. And he'd heard the _thump_ Brandon's arm had made against the chair. Much to Brandon's delight, and surprise, Ronnie lowered his hand and brushed it against his. Ronnie latched his pinkie around Brandon's. It was so subtle, Brandon wondered if it was an accident, but it couldn't have been. Ronnie had intentionally put his fork down. 

Brandon entertained the thought of fully clasping Ronnie's hand. _'Slow and steady wins the race,'_ he told himself. He'd dipped his toes in the water, and Ronnie had responded well, but he may not take so well to something bolder. 

Brandon had dragged his fingertips across the hot iron. He wasn't planning on pressing his palm up against it yet.

Once the mashed potatoes were no more, the adults went over to the living room to watch football and a recording of the Macy's Thanksgiving parade. Brandon and Ronnie had already seen the parade earlier, so they took their dishes to the kitchen and excused themselves upstairs.

Ronnie hadn't said much at the table, except to compliment the Flowers' cooking and to answer when one of the neighbors asked his name. Brandon similarly said approximately three sentences, one of which was him asking his mom to pass the vegetables. 

Ronnie and Brandon were cut from a similar cloth; They both hated talking in front of strangers. The things that were on Brandon's mind were not things he wanted to say in front of his neighbors. And Ronnie was shy around Brandon's parents most of the time, anyway. 

He wasn't sure he'd wanna say them to Ronnie's face either. The private, intimate feelings he'd kept hidden for almost a year were starting to spill out onto the rest of his brain. His own thoughts became a vulnerable place to be in. He wanted to curl up and die. Instead, he was in his bedroom with his best friend.

He collapsed against his bed, which had a flannel bedspread. Ronnie sat in the chair by his desk. Ronnie seemed to have this unspoken rule where he had to be invited to sit next to Brandon on his bed. In part, Brandon understood this. Ronnie was careful about respecting boundaries, even ones that hadn't been established, under any circumstances. However, Brandon found it to be mortifying to have to pat the space next to him and signal 'come hither' or say 'come sit next to me' out loud. A result of overanalyzing everything he did and said around Ronnie.

He didn't like asking people to do things. Asking Ronnie was an entirely different ballpark.

It was the small things, really. Like the week before when they were all at Dave's house, that being Brandon, Mark, and Ronnie. They were doing homework, which in actuality, was a cover-up for the fact they were slacking off. The public and private schools were supposed to be on relatively similar wavelengths, but they somehow managed to teach the same topics in completely different ways. 

This mostly resulted in Dave and Mark bickering on the correct way to solve a system of equations. Very little work was completed. The boys' definition of 'helping one another' was more like 'who can come up with the most convoluted explanation for the symbolism in _Animal Farm?'_ For future reference, the answer to that question was Ronnie. Mark was a close second. Back to the point. Ronnie was writing something down, and Brandon found himself staring at Ronnie's hands. As it turned out, this wasn't the most effective way for Brandon to keep himself in check. He kept finding seductiveness where it wasn't, and he was looking for invitations where there weren't any.

Nonetheless, Brandon wasn't too full to swallow his pride. He gestured for Ronnie to come over. Ronnie didn't protest. 

Brandon didn't turn his head to look at him. He knew the urge to close the gap between them would be too compelling. He'd had some close calls. At that point, he began to wonder how Ronnie hadn't caught on. Or, quite terrible but completely possible, Ronnie noticed and simply had no interest in Brandon.

Brandon dismissed that thought. _'A man ought to have confidence,'_ he told himself, roughly recalling something his uncle may or may not have said. ' _Especially if said man is ballsy enough to fall for another man.'_

There it was. That chilling idea; Love. That horrific concept; Falling in love. Brandon was young, and he knew teenagers weren't supposed to know what it felt like. He also wasn't stupid. It may not have been love, but it was more than silly infatuation. 

Brandon knew this much: he felt a very particular way about Ronnie. These feelings were in a different league than the appreciation he felt for Dave or Mark or anybody else. 

And quite frankly, he didn't care if it was love or lust or economics. Whatever it was, it was persistently bubbling its way towards the surface. And similarly to heart-shaped boxes labeled 'Incorrect Feelings', people tended to erupt without a moment's notice.

Brandon stared at the ceiling, mentally running through all the things he could say. Ronnie didn't mind the silence. Contrarily, Brandon was a ticking time bomb. 

Quietness gave room for honesty. Brandon had been selling a different, less-romantically-attracted-to-Ronnie version of himself for so long, any space was bound to elicit the wrong words. _'I really like you,'_ was constantly on the tip of his tongue, and at times, he had to bite his gums to keep himself from saying it.

He had to do something, and waiting for the right time would mean waiting forever. It was always simultaneously perfect and too soon and too abrupt. Once the words were out, they'd stay out. Brandon wished so dearly he could grow a pair and say it already, he wore himself out with anger and—

"Your folks are nice," Ronnie said.

Brandon's catastrophic train of thought had been interrupted. He told himself to thank Ronnie one day for the timing.

"Yeah," Brandon chuckled. "Most of the time."

It'd only just happened to hit Brandon that he'd hardly been to Ronnie's house and barely knew his mom. He'd ask why, but he already knew. Mark had told him on the phone one night. In plain words, Mark informed Brandon on the subject of Ronnie's home life.

There wasn't much to be said. Ronnie's mom worked her ass off, which made Ronnie feel guilty. More importantly, the quiet of his house drove him nuts. He tried to get away from it as much as he could.

And that's why Brandon was not often invited to Ronnie's house. Ronnie didn't mind the absence of sound when he was around Brandon. When he was home, the stillness meant he was alone. When he was with Brandon, it was comfortable. They didn't always need to use words.

There were certain messages Brandon wanted to get across that didn't require words. 

He ran his hands over his face. Thinking those thoughts while he laid next to Ronnie was a racy game to be playing. Ronnie was either a mind reader, or Brandon just had second-rate luck: Ronnie rolled over on his side, and in the process, laid his head against Brandon's shoulder with one arm over Brandon's chest.

Brandon realized Ronnie was falling asleep. 

Ronnie exhaled, blissfully, and burrowed his head into Brandon's shoulder to block out the light. Brandon considered getting up to turn them off, it'd only be courteous, but he was snug where he was. He believed there'd be no greater pleasure in life than to fall asleep beside Ronnie, right then and there, but his mind was still racing. 

If he could shut his brain off and enjoy the moment, he would've done it in a heartbeat. On the topic of heartbeats, Brandon's was definitely higher than normal. His heart pounded in his chest. Ronnie didn't take notice.

Brandon, once over this apprehension, felt he could get used to this.

He didn't get much of a chance. No less than half an hour later, when his own eyelids were starting to feel heavy, Brandon was startled by the sound of his parents drunkenly trudging up the stairs. He'd be ashamed to admit it, but his kneejerk reaction was ' _Wow, a pair of bloody hypocrites. I can't even drink a normal coke and they're getting tipsy.'_ Neither of them were wasted, but they were giddy and laughing.

Ronnie stirred in his sleep. By the time Brandon's parents reached the top of the staircase, he'd woken up. Ronnie sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"Oh, you're still awake!" Brandon's mom exclaimed once they passed by Brandon's room. It was only eleven. Then, she noticed Ronnie and was appalled. She'd forgotten to drive him home. "Jesus, sorry, what time is it?"

Brandon looked at his alarm clock. "Eleven thirty." They'd served dinner late to start with, sure, but wow, where had the time gone?

Mrs. Flowers suddenly felt completely sober. She ran her hands through her hair. "Is your mom still working, Ronnie?" She asked.

"Probably," he replied, yawning. "Don't worry about it. I'll call her now and walk home tomorrow morning. If you don't mind me staying the night, of course."

Brandon's mom relaxed. "Yeah, alright then. Just make sure your mom knows you're here, okay? Good night."

Ronnie shot his mom a quick text. Technically, this made him a liar, but phone calls were more expensive.

Once his parents were out of earshot, Brandon hopped off the bed and closed his bedroom door. He considered his next words carefully.

"You wanna borrow a shirt to sleep in?" 

It'd only now dawned on Ronnie that he was still wearing his jeans and sweater. He nodded. His wordlessness made Brandon nervous. It was ridiculous but Brandon worried he'd done something wrong.

"Heads up," he said, immediately tossing a balled-up shirt towards Ronnie. It was beige and offensively oversized with a faded Morrissey print.

Ronnie smiled. It reminded him of a time when Brandon had been overtly concerned about being old-fashioned. It felt like that'd been a lifetime ago. The edges of those memories had started to fade in Ronnie's mind. They'd been replaced by new ones. Brandon still remembered those times well.

Brandon turned his back to face away from Ronnie as he took off his shirt. He and Ronnie had changed in front of one another at least a thousand times. Brandon was starting to have a sneaking suspicion that Ronnie wouldn't give a shit if he watched him change. It was a habit Brandon kept for his own sake. Brandon was prone to blushing and thinking the wrong thoughts at the wrong times. He was hardly keeping it together as it was.

Brandon turned around and was met with an alarming realization. He hadn't given Ronnie a pair of pajama pants. Ronnie could not care less. Brandon felt like slamming his head against a brick wall. And it was too late to offer them now, for it'd seem like Brandon felt weird about it. Which he did, but in a bashful way. The only dignifiable thing to do would be to sport the same look: a big shirt, no pants. It shouldn't have been a big deal, but to Brandon, everything was either the end of the world or the best thing that'd ever happened.

"I'm gonna turn the light off now, is that okay?" Brandon asked once Ronnie had invited himself under the covers.

"Yeah, I'm good."

With the door closed, Brandon's room was pitch black. He couldn't see a thing. He almost stumbled and tripped over his own legs. Which, given his current state, didn't help his confidence. He got under the sheets, being careful to leave some space between him and Ronnie. Brandon wanted Ronnie to be the one to close the gap.

"Brandon, I'm really grateful for you," Ronnie whispered. 

Brandon smiled stupidly. He thanked his lucky stars Ronnie couldn't see him gleaming. "I'm thankful you're my best friend."

" _Best_ friend? Careful there, you might make Dave jealous," Ronnie said.

"Oh, fuck Dave. He'd sell my soul to the devil for half a Ritz cracker."

"You've gotta give him credit," Ronnie murmured. "He's got his priorities straight."

"Yeah."

Ronnie sighed deeply, which felt like the conclusion to that conversation. He rolled over though, and his arms were outstretched towards Brandon. They laid in silence for a few minutes. When Ronnie spoke again, Brandon had almost thought he'd dozed off.

"C'mere," he said, half-asleep.

Ronnie scooted over, meeting Brandon halfway. Brandon instinctually wrapped his arms around him and pulled him closer. To Brandon, Ronnie felt like comfort, warmth, and home. Brandon was grinning, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his teeth ached from smiling too much. The nervous voice in the back of his head was silent. The two shifted around until they fit together like a pair of matching puzzle pieces.

The duo was intertwined oddly but comfortably. Ronnie laid right up against Brandon's chest and his face was practically in the crook of Brandon's neck. Brandon could feel Ronnie's slow, warm breaths. He felt chills roll down his spine. Their legs were entangled and Brandon knew if he repositioned himself the wrong way or stretched his legs, he'd be feeling sparks reminiscent of the day he and Ronnie sorted his backyard.

"Good night," Brandon said softly.

"Good night."

Brandon exhaled. He finally felt like he could breathe again.

Ronnie called Brandon the following weekend to ask him to see a Christmas light exhibit with him. Brandon had practically been waiting by the phone all morning. Since Ronnie made no mention of inviting either Mark or Dave, Brandon felt extra lucky. The events of Thanksgiving night had given him a newfound streak of determination, which he'd need if this was going to get anywhere.

Ronnie was at Brandon's doorstep once the sun started to set. They walked as the sky turned from orange to shades of purple and navy blue. Brandon had never been happier.

"Let's pretend that we're ice skating," Brandon said.

Ronnie grinned. He knew what that meant. He took Brandon's hand in his. They strolled through the dark neighborhood hand in hand.

There was a hot chocolate stand by a gas station on the way. Brandon kindly dragged Ronnie along with him. A detour never killed anyone. Brandon was in a good mood with a couple of bucks in his back pocket. He missed burning the roof of his mouth, oddly enough. He'd missed all of winter's small treasures, mostly because they reminded him of Ronnie. Late November was potentially a bit early for this, but radio stations were already playing holiday music. Brandon could have his cocoa and drink it too.

The Christmas light exhibit was in a park, a couple of blocks away from the busy downtown area. There weren't a lot of people around, seeing as the lights would be up until January. They had plenty of time to get around to it.

The lights glowed brilliantly in the darkness of sundown. A cold wind brushed against Brandon's face, but his cheeks were flushed. There it was again— his jaw ached from smiling so hard. This was what life was meant to be. Ronnie made him feel special. And for once, the way Brandon felt didn't make him cringe with shame.

The lights were beautiful, but he was really watching Ronnie. Some of the pieces were more juvenile, like a light-up Rudolf the Reindeer or an overly round Santa. But the park was mostly decorated tastefully and simply. All the fences were wrapped in muted yellow lights. In the center of the park, there was a Christmas tree adorned with white lights with a glittery silver star atop.

"This is really nice," Brandon said.

"I'm glad you came with me."

Brandon gripped Ronnie's hand harder. Brandon thought if Ronnie didn't return his feelings, he'd still be glad to just be his friend.

"I'm happy you invited me. But Santa's lookin' a little scary," Brandon replied.

"He's not so bad. The reindeer's pretty cute, which I think makes up for it."

_'You're pretty cute,'_ Brandon thought, which made him want to violently facepalm. His inner monologue was starting to resemble that of a boy-crazy schoolgirl. But there were worse things to be. And honestly, how could he have avoided it? Ronnie held his hand as if it were nobody else's business. That gave a boy room to dream.

Brandon had some pretty vivid dreams.

They walked down the park's entire path, admiring all the different colors. Brandon's favorite decoration was a polar bear holding what looked to be a red can of coca-cola. Ronnie preferred the big stars.

"I don't know what a mosey is, but I say it's time we moseyed on out of here," Ronnie said eventually. They'd both finished their hot chocolate and had seen everything there was to see.

"Yeah, but I don't want this night to end," Brandon sighed. He rested his head against Ronnie's shoulder.

Without missing a beat, Ronnie replied. "You could stay over at my house."

Brandon was pleasantly surprised by this. Ever since he'd met Ronnie, there'd been that unspoken rule. The gang hardly ventured to his house. Excluding Mark, who kinda went there all the time. Public school kids were on a different wavelength or whatever, he said. Brandon always thought it was a big deal. It felt like one to him. It'd always been that way, until now.

"I'd like that."

The streets were now completely empty. The only illumination came from the sparse streetlights and the pale moon. They walked in silence. Brandon was overly aware of his racing heart and the way Ronnie's hand felt in his. In the quietness, Brandon felt painfully insecure. So much for confidence.

There was gnawing anxiety nagging away at his spirit. He felt foolish to have ever thought Ronnie could feel the same way he did. He was trying to win, and playing to win was a loser's game. Inevitably, he'd lose. The repercussions could be worse than any gains. And just like that, the confidence he'd slowly worked up was knocked over like a house of crooked cards. He cycled through all the reasons he had to suppress the way he felt. Ronnie would be disgusted with him, his parents would be disappointed...

He stopped that train of thought in its tracks. He took in a deep breath and told himself to stop. His father had once told him that assuming things made an ass out of everyone. Something vaguely along those lines, he'd been drinking a bit. Either way, he couldn't read Ronnie's mind. Any attempt to guess what he felt would really just be Brandon projecting his self-esteem or insecurity at the given time. Things were going to be the way they were regardless.

As they walked down the sidewalk, Ronnie made it a point to tap every streetlight they passed.

"What's with the streetlights?" Brandon asked. He was genuinely curious. He was also trying to distract himself from his own catastrophizing.

"It's good luck, or something just as dumb as that."

"It's not stupid. Not if you like doing it."

"You're too good to be true," Ronnie sighed.

Brandon couldn't stop himself from smiling. He was again grateful to be walking under the cover of night. Darkness had been doing him a lot of favors.

"And here we are," Ronnie said.

"Just like I remember." Brandon had only been there, what was it, twice? Maybe three times. There was something charmingly unforgettable about the blue paint and red door.

Ronnie unlocked the front door slowly. "Shh, my mom's probably asleep."

They crept through the living room, where Ronnie's mom was indeed asleep on the couch, and up the stairs. Ronnie turned the door handle to his bedroom, holding his breath. Once they'd made it without waking Ms. Vannucci or setting anything aflame, Ronnie heaved a sigh of relief and collapsed onto his bed. He pulled Brandon down with him. Brandon was busy appreciating the fact he was in Ronnie's bedroom. It was simple, but Brandon thought it was perfect. The walls were a light grey, which wasn't a necessarily inspired choice, but it matched the navy bedspread and colorful vinyl records on the walls. Brandon's favorite part was the world map framed above the bed.

Not like any of that mattered. The lights would soon be out.

Ronnie wrapped his arm around Brandon. Brandon burrowed his head into the crook of his neck.

Brandon dug his cellphone out of his pocket and haphazardly typed a message out to his mom, telling her he'd be spending the night. It was full of typos, but seventy percent of his line of sight was obstructed by Ronnie's neck. His mom may not be too pleased with him in the morning, but he'd already warned her he'd be home late. Now he'd just be coming home in the earlymorning.

Brandon yawned and toed his shoes off. They made a _thump_ noise as they hit the wooden floor.

Brandon shut his eyes. He wanted to fully appreciate the way laying in Ronnie's arms felt. Ronnie had also switched on the lights when they walked in. Brandon's eyes were tired. Mild strain aside, he was elated. He and Ronnie had shared a bed twice within the last week, which was more than he could say about any past version of himself. It was small and the most high school-esque feeling anyone had ever experienced, but Brandon's life was composed of those stupid, minuscule things. It was the small things that were important, anyway. The greatest fires sparked from tiny embers.

Brandon's face was on fire, but he wasn't embarrassed. Not this time. If this could only last forever. He and Ronnie might just get somewhere, but Brandon's self-confidence was fleeting. It was a roller coaster with exhilarating highs and deflating lows. The tide had let him go earlier that night out on the street, but he caught himself quickly. Other times, it took him a hell of a lot longer to pick himself off the ground.

He wondered if Ronnie went through the same highs and lows.

"I had a great night," He muttered against Ronnie's neck. "Thank you."

He was pretty sure he'd already said that, but some things deserved repeating.

Brandon could have never known it, but Ronnie melted at the feeling of his breath up against his neck. They both had a lot on their minds. A lot to mull over. But they both liked the feeling of being wrapped around one another. Warm skin against skin in the early nights of December was single-handedly the best feeling God created, Brandon decided.

"Wouldn't have had any fun without you," Ronnie replied nonchalantly.

_'Yup,'_ Brandon thought. _'This is heaven on earth.'_

There were a lot of things he wanted to say, confessions dancing on the tip of his tongue, but he saved them for another day. The comfortable silence said everything more eloquently than Brandon ever could with words. _  
_

His cellphone buzzed in his front pocket, which was his mom either wishing him a good night's rest, or her telling him off for not coming home. Or maybe it was Dave texting to ask about their history homework. Either way, Brandon had no intentions of answering it. That'd require un-entangling himself from Ronnie's arms. He wasn't willing to make such a sacrifice.

Brandon's phone could wait. He was starting to doze off. Ronnie could tell. His breathing became shallow and slower, and he felt heavier in Ronnie's arms. Ronnie grudgingly got up to turn off the lights, to which Brandon groaned in response. He was dying for Ronnie to hold him again.

Ronnie switched the lights off and changed his shirt. Brandon took notice. It was hard to see because barely any light crept in through the blinds, but he could make out the figure of Ronnie changing clothes. Tiredness weighed his shoulders down, but Brandon figured he too should get undressed. When in Rome, as they say. Ronnie turned to Brandon and realized he was awake.

"Hey, sleepy-head. Need a shirt?" He asked.

Like deja vu, except the tables had turned.

"Yes... Please," Brandon replied, now propping himself up on his palms.

He was cozy in his hoodie, but he wasn't going to pass up on a chance to wear a shirt of Ronnie's. 

Brandon felt more enamored than he had the previous week, or ever. He was getting closer and closer with Ronnie. The best part was Ronnie was letting him in.Inviting him in, really. Brandon may have been deterred by his own anxiety at times, but the truth of the matter was that Ronnie had never pushed him away. He was having just as much fun as Brandon. It may have been the sleepiness or his rose-colored glasses, but Brandon was satisfied with that working theory.

Ronnie tossed Brandon a t-shirt and they both slept in their jeans.

It was just as good as it was on Thanksgiving. Maybe better. Brandon wouldn't mind living it over and over again a hundred times.

He wrapped his arm around Ronnie once they were both under the covers. Ronnie made a sound of contentment, and Brandon realized this was the one person he felt good being weak around. Brandon wanted a lot more of these late, orange-toned nights. For that to happen, he needed to do something. 

Brandon, always worrying about what to do next. A cat had to be let out of the bag, or rather, some truths had to be spoken.

For now, the warmth of the sheets and Ronnie was a nice place to be. 


	4. Welcome to the Party

The following Saturday, Brandon had a sky blue bicycle and a bad idea. In theory, the scheme itself wasn't terrible. Whether or not it'd go well was another story. But he was finally going to do something, and that was what mattered. He was always worrying, always planning, and here it came.

He'd gotten better at shutting his cruel inner-voice up. It was there, but less demanding. He could tune it out now. That high may not last for long, so he needed to ride this wave of confidence as far as it'd take him. There were no guarantees, but he figured his chances were better than slim to none.

After Thanksgiving and the weekend that followed, things had been put into perspective for him. He'd assumed his feelings were one-sided, but the way Ronnie held him sparked hope. There wasn't much of it, but it was hope nonetheless. It would be enough. Even the most fanciful pipe dreams were something to hold on to. That was all he needed: something to hold on to. 

Mark was visiting his grandparents and Dave was grounded for telling his religious studies teacher he'd 'rot in hell, and gladly'. This eliminated the main obstacle that would've been in Brandon's way: his friends. This was to happen without distraction and without needing to come up with an alibi. And it had to happen as soon as possible because if he put it off, Brandon was the type who'd end up never doing it.

He woke up at the crack of dawn to half-ass his homework and get it out of the way. With an open agenda, he could focus. Focus on the words he'd have to say. He wanted this to be precise, as close to perfection as humanly possible. If the words that came out of his mouth were tangled and incoherent, he would come off across as desperate. He was pretty sure he was, but he'd gotten used to keeping up appearances.

He briefly contemplated writing his feelings out instead. A letter could be crafted and revised. But he wanted to say how he felt, with words. To tell Ronnie how he made him feel. And Brandon just had to see his face.

It was early December. The time of year where a subtle, enduring chill was always hanging about. The winds were cool, but the clouds were clear and the sun beamed down hot. These were the days Brandon loved most. It was just his luck, too. He had a Plan B, in case it was too cold or rained, but it wouldn't be ideal. The more that went to plan, the better. A hair out of place and this train could be thrown off its tracks.

He was going to wear something dressy, but he thought if he looked nicer than usual, though, Ronnie might pick up on what was happening. Earlier than he should, that is. It would've felt out of place anyway.

When Brandon went downstairs, his mom asked him what he was doing with that picnic basket. He'd been hoping he wouldn't have to explain himself. Luckily she was content with 'just gonna have fun with my friends'.

This was starting to feel silly, but he couldn't back out now. He promised himself he wouldn't.

Without needing to haul his backpack around, Brandon felt weightless as he rode through the neighborhood. Leaves were starting to die and fall onto the streets. The wind breezed through his hair, it was getting long again—just short of being chin-length. 

He'd intended on listening to music as he rode to Ronnie's house, a last-gasp attempt at calming his nerves, but his arm got caught on the earphones' wire and they were yanked out of his iPod's headphone jack. Fate decided he could listen to the sound of his own thoughts instead. There wasn't much to choose between on the radio in Brandon's mind. There was doubt, which he tried to tune out, courage, which he kept close to his heart, and a refrain he kept on loop. _I like you_. Simple and easy enough to spit out, but he thought that if he didn't repeat it a couple of hundred times in his head it'd never come out.

He was pedaling faster, now. The roads were dead quiet. He'd planned on taking his sweet time so he could get his head right, but again, if he held this off, he'd talk himself into turning around. The silence was unnerving.

He wondered (worried about) what Ronnie would think of him showing up at his doorstep uninvited. Brandon's mother had raised him to be courteous, and this was impromptu at best. His train of thought went like so: he and Ronnie were best friends, and if they were close enough to sleep beside one another in their underwear, they were close enough to show up at each other's houses without notice. Ronnie wouldn't mind. Brandon hoped so, anyway.

Brandon managed to find his way to Ronnie's house. He was impressed with himself for memorizing the address, having been there so few times. 

The picnic basket was roughly intact (though the two coke cans he'd put in there had been shaken up by the bumpy road), so he had that going for him. As he propped his bike's kickstand up on Ronnie's driveway and unbuckled his helmet, he saw a rusty penny on the ground. He pocketed it. He was going to need every bit of luck he could get.

He crossed his fingers and rang the doorbell. He held his breath as a distraction to keep himself from running away in a fluster. _One... two... three..._

Ronnie opened the door on four. Waiting for Brandon to speak, he said nothing. The smile on his face said everything for him.

"Hi," Brandon said. "Is this a bad time?"

"Depends. Who's asking? Assuming the answer to that question is you, no."

Brandon felt his face start to warm up, which was not the sun but embarrassment. The heat was oddly comforting. Then he remembered what he'd come here to do and his heart sunk. He was about to hammer nails into his own coffin. The words almost came out right then and there: _'I like you. As in,_ really _like you'._ He smiled and kept his mouth shut.

This had to be a proper conversation. Everything in its own time and place.

"I've got random snacks I stole from my pantry, two cans of Coke, caffeine-free, I'm afraid, and directions to the nearest park. If you're interested. If you change your mind and suddenly have sixty late homework assignments, I won't be offended. Well, a little bit."

"Don't kid yourself. I practically wait by the phone for you to call," Ronnie said. Eerily similar to how Brandon actually felt. "We could take my truck to that field by the mountain instead, though."

Ronnie had a car now. Used and beaten-up, sure, but a car nonetheless. This was a variable Brandon hadn't considered. And he knew the area Ronnie was talking about, it was certainly more secluded than the park. A hair out of place, but a welcome one.

"Funny you should say that. I've got you on speed dial, mentally," Brandon replied. Right after saying that, he wished he had an actual telephone handy to bash his skull in with. He was shocked Ronnie couldn't see how much he adored him. "And yeah, the field's even better."

"It's a date, then."

Brandon glanced away and shoved his hands in his pockets. He couldn't look Ronnie in the eyes after hearing that. Part of him wanted to grab Ronnie's face and ask, _'Why don't you just kiss me then already, you bastard?'_

Not the time nor the place. That would be the field in an hour or so. But not on Ronnie's doorstep, and not now.

Brandon took his bike and left it leaning against the backyard's fence. If someone wanted to steal it, that was their prerogative. If this confession went terribly wrong and Ronnie left him in the middle of the field, Brandon would have to walk a couple of miles home. Ronnie was on his honor to just not do that.

Brandon had his stupid basket and good luck penny. Things couldn't go too badly.

Brandon had never been in Ronnie's car before. Admittedly, Ronnie didn't drive much. The car was second-hand, but he kept it in fine shape. His version of maintenance was apparently hardly using the damn thing at all. 

Brandon ran his fingers across the side of his seat. He came across a loose thread and rubbed it in between his fingertips. Closing his eyes, he sighed as Ronnie started the car. It bears repeating: he'd made a promise to himself. He intended on keeping it. His head made a _thud_ sound as it hit the back of the headrest.

Part of him wished he'd never felt this way at all, but he knew there were certain givens in life and things he couldn't change. Even if he had the chance, he wasn't completely sure he'd want to. He felt stupid and small at times, but he also felt giddy, and sometimes he'd be so smitten he was lightheaded and weak in the knees.

It was what it was, and that wasn't so bad.

The radio was off, which made Brandon antsy to fill the air with words. He couldn't think of anything mildly intelligent of substance to say, so there was more nothingness. He rested his chin on his fist, looking out the window. The sky was perfectly blue and the sun was getting in his eyes. He closed them again. The heat coming through the glass felt lovely on his face, and for a moment he forgot it was December. His winters had been orange-colored as of late, and summers felt bluer.

Brandon heard something in the back of his head. He thought he'd fallen asleep and was dreaming. In reality, this was the sound of Ronnie humming. Brandon could've spilled everything right then and there. He'd been nervous and on edge, and at that moment, all his worries softened and slipped away, like grains of sand falling through a sieve. His stomach continued to twist in knots, but in a pleasant way. 

He was thinking about what it'd be like to kiss Ronnie, and he was about to either find out or fail. If worse came to worst, he'd know he'd tried his damndest.

The drive wasn't long. Twenty minutes, at most. Brandon watched as the landscape went from the quiet but well-developed town of Henderson to its outskirts. There was nothing to see except for the open sky and grass. There'd be nothing except him and Ronnie, and the words he had to say. If he could cough them out.

Ronnie stopped the car. Brandon felt goosebumps roll down the back of his neck. His heartbeat was counting the seconds down to go. He pressed his pointer and middle finger against his wrist. His pulse was racing. It suggested he was still alive.

Brandon hopped out of the pick-up truck. He took his picnic basket out, feeling dumbly awkward. Ronnie took a second to get out of the driver's seat. Once he did, Brandon realized he'd pulled out a folded up blanket from under his seat.

"Prepared for everything, huh?" Brandon asked. There was a nervous stutter to his words.

"My mom said I should have it in case I ever got stuck in the snow. I don't think it'd do me much good then, but this counts as an emergency, right?"

An emergency. An appropriate way to describe the situation he'd put himself in, Brandon thought. A catastrophe he'd chosen to bring upon himself, but a disaster nonetheless.

_'This could go well,'_ Brandon reminded himself. No bets were off yet.

They sat together on the grass. Brandon gripped the soft fabric of the blanket in his hand. Was this supposed to be relaxing? Brandon did not feel relaxed. Ronnie seemed fine, which was something.

Brandon tried to speak. To say anything. The words wouldn't come out.

He still wasn't going to back out. But he needed something to ease his mind before he cut into his chest and pulled his heart and guts out. 

Brandon felt something heavy in his pocket. He remembered the playlist he'd made on his iPod for this very occasion. Songs about double-decker buses and red lights may have not been the most romantic, but they were the type that got his blood flowing. Something to force himself to unwind.

He offered Ronnie an earphone. Ronnie took the cue. He wrapped his arm around Brandon, and Brandon rested his head against Ronnie's shoulder. Brandon's chest ached, and he wondered if he'd regret this. He thought about the penny in his pocket and the orange-colored lense he'd been living life through and what his chances were. He felt something sharp in the palm of his hand. He was digging his nails in.

_'Just spit it out already,'_ he told himself. _'You're headed nowhere fast'._

He promised himself he'd say it and he'd say it right then and there _._ So naturally what he actually did was reach for the basket, which he'd neglected thus far on account of focusing on the music. He pulled out a ziplock bag of cherries. He ate one, mostly to buy himself a couple of seconds to decide if he'd go through with this or not. Then Ronnie spoke.

"You know, I can tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue," Ronnie said, aimlessly.

Brandon thought it may have been some stress-induced state of delirium but no, those words had really just come out of Ronnie's mouth. Ronnie was not a casual flirt, unless he was talking to Brandon, naturally. He caught Brandon off guard but besides shaking him a little, it gave Brandon the push he needed. Ronnie couldn't be that unintentional and oblivious, right?

"That got me thinking," Brandon sighed after a moment. He paused the music and took his earphone out. Ronnie followed suit. "Jesus Christ, I'm not gonna say sorry for that one, I can't believe I'm doing this. You mind if I try something?"

That sent alarm bells ringing in Ronnie's mind. The good kind.

"Go ahead."

Brandon turned to look Ronnie in the eyes. Ronnie's arm was still loosely draped around his shoulders, and it almost looked as if Ronnie was knowingly smiling a little. They sat so close to one another, their thighs were touching. Brandon leaned forward, ever so slightly, and rested his forehead against Ronnie's. There's electricity and warmth and nervous cold sweat. Brandon inches closer and he almost breathes the words against Ronnie's mouth, but he kisses him instead.

The sky may have been blue, but Brandon wouldn't have known it. Everything was orange.

Ronnie put his hand on Brandon's knee, which was all kinds of alluring and inviting and just right. Brandon's head spun, merrily dizzy. He didn't notice he'd grabbed a fistful of Ronnie's shirt until he started to pull away, breathless. He'd been more focused on the fact that Ronnie had kissed him back, with deep wanting and satisfaction.

It was quick, but any doubts in Brandon's mind had been hushed entirely.

"I didn't realize you like boys," Ronnie said, slack-jawed. He was kind of lying, but also still genuinely shocked. He was smiling. Delicately, carefully, but smiling nonetheless. He bit his bottom lip, trying to pinpoint how that'd felt. It was all sorts of glowing and soft.

Brandon could've laughed at that. It was easily one of the funniest things he'd ever heard. "Welcome to the party. I'm surprised you never realized I like _you_."

Ronnie looked down, thinking. "When'd you know?"

Brandon didn't need to ask for clarification. He knew what Ronnie meant. "Remember when we had to clean my yard?"

"Yeah, course I do. I knew a while after that, too."

It took a minute for that to register in Brandon's brain.

"You're not disgusted with me," he observed.

Ronnie nodded as if this were a given. "If you're disgusting for kissing me, then I'm a heathenfor the things I've thought about you."

Brandon's face felt hot, and he was far past blaming the sunshine. He wanted to kiss Ronnie again, but he still hadn't said what he needed to. However, the need to keep up appearances to not seem desperate had been thrown out the window. Everything about that kiss was eager and frantic.

"I can't believe you never questioned how obsessed—healthily obsessed—I am with you."

"I was oblivious, Brandon. I thought I was just your best friend. Which was a little bit disappointing, but you take what you can get. I can't believe neither of us said anything about this for so long."

"Two years ain't that long," Brandon said. He'd decided he'd really noticed before their yard work incident. "I got used to it."

If one could say that 'functioning' alcoholics got 'used' to it, then sure, one could also say Brandon got used to his personal hell. One his brain crafted just for him, with pillars of anxiety and walls of doubt. But those walls were starting to crumble. 

"Here we are, though."

Yes, here they were. Heart-shaped boxes tended to pop open. It was the way these things went. Sometimes, two people's hearts just so happened to coincide.

_'What now?'_ Brandon asked himself.

"For starters, you could kiss me again," Ronnie said.

Brandon didn't realize he'd said that aloud.

Regardless, Brandon pulled him closer. Ronnie was practically sitting on top of his lap by then. If Brandon had believed nothing could further fuel the fire burning at the bottom of his stomach, he'd been proven wrong. 

Ronnie ran his hands through Brandon's hair. The air was getting colder, the winds lighter as the clouds rolled over the sun, but things were only just starting to get hotter and heavier.

"This okay?" Brandon muttered, his lips still pressed up against Ronnie's.

Ronnie's mind was racing. Someone else, someone more reasonable, may have said that this was too much too fast. Ronnie had abandoned rationality the moment Brandon showed up at his doorstep. To him, it was perfect. Thousands of subtle glances and hours of laughter built up to this. He couldn't do anything but nod and lean further into the kiss. 

Brandon couldn't help but smile once they separated again.

"It's probably obvious by now, but I promised myself I'd say it no matter what. I like you."

"I wouldn't have known it if it had come up and slit my throat. This goes without saying, but I like you too."

Brandon was still dumbstruck. It was sort of like trying to shake off jitters after drinking too much coffee. Not that he had much experience drinking coffee... Of course.

"I tried to ignore how I felt," Brandon said after a minute of stunned silence. "Didn't work. Feels a bit ridiculous now."

"You can hide from anything, Brandon. It won't go away, but you can try and ignore it. Fluff it up with other stuff and shove it down. But you can't outrun your own feelings. I think you have to catch up with yourself, eventually."

The sun was starting to set. 

"Yeah, you're right. You're always right, you know that? These sorts of things claw their way out, don't they? Whether or not it's asked for."

"Hell, if all I had to do was ask, I would've asked a long time ago," Ronnie said, amused.

Brandon was rendered properly speechless. He'd spent all this time going back and forth on this mental debate, and yet here Ronnie was, smooth as ever. Brandon was almost surprised Ronnie hadn't ever come on to him. Ronnie was more restrained than him, perhaps.

Brandon focused on his hands and how they were clasped together as he twiddled his thumbs. He'd blurted out the entire contents of his brain within a few sentences and he needed to recuperate. He wasn't ashamed, not now, but he was vulnerable. He needed to clear his mind. Moreso, he needed to bask in the glory that was having kissed Ronnie Vannucci. 

Ronnie's arms were at his sides. Open-ended. Brandon took that as an invitation. He got closer and took Ronnie's hand in his. 

The pair sat together as the blues of the sky died into blazing oranges and purples the shade of berries.

Brandon cracked a coca-cola open. It wasn't icy cold anymore, but he'd brought the basket for a reason. He wasn't a snob, after years of drinking the second rate caffeine-free shit. Lukewarm soda was nothing.

"I should probably get you home," Ronnie said. It would only get darker and darker. The further winter went on, the shorter the days were.

Brandon sighed. "I guess all good things must come to an end."

"Not if we carry on the next day." Ronnie wore a smile that said _'I'm in your corner now'._ He helped Brandon up.

It was weird to be standing again. Brandon was seeing, feeling, the world with a new set of eyes. A more optimistic, less lightheaded pair.

Brandon thought his mom might kill him for coming home hours after he'd left. She hadn't called, so she either hadn't noticed or figured he was in good hands. Quite frankly, he would've been fine with being murdered in cold blood. He could die happy now. It was overdramatic, but Brandon was in a state of bliss. He was going to enjoy it. It cast a fuzzy light over everything else.

They sat in silence. Ronnie watched the road, and Brandon watched him drive. He was jealous, in an affectionate way. He hadn't gotten his driver's license yet. 

As streetlights and stop signs came into view, Brandon remembered there was an outside world to worry about. But he was getting ahead of himself. He and Ronnie hadn't declared what they were, if they were anything, for that matter.

Brandon remembered the penny in his pocket. He took it out and rubbed it between his thumb and pointer finger. He was lucky. He had to remember that.

Ronnie pulled up into the driveway before Brandon even noticed they were in his neighborhood. 

"Shit. My bike's still at your house," Brandon said.

"How about this? I'll bring it when I come over at, hm, let's say, noon, tomorrow."

Brandon smiled as he realized Ronnie had done this on purpose. "You're not slick, you know. Luckily enough, I was too stupid to remember. You'd know I'd drop everything for you anyway."

"You're not stupid," Ronnie said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Never stupid. And a chase makes things more fun."

Ronnie walked Brandon to his doorstep. Brandon almost thought Ronnie would kiss him right then and there in front of his neighbors. Instead, Ronnie pulled him in for a bear hug.

He'd seen the expression on Brandon's face. "I'm not that naive," he breathed against Brandon's neck.

What a lovely sonofabitch.

_"Are your folks home?"_ Ronnie asked, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding his cellphone. Was it legal to be on the phone while driving in Nevada? He hadn't paid his driving instructor much mind all those months ago.

Brandon bolted down the stairs, past the living room, and looked out the window. The driveway was empty. His parents had either left to visit one of his siblings or to go grocery shopping. He couldn't remember. It was late Sunday morning, he'd hardly slept, and he definitely wasn't listening when they announced they'd be out.

"Nope. I'm on my own."

_"Good, 'cause I'm bringing you flowers. And your bike's in the back here."_

That caught Brandon off guard. He cupped his hand over his mouth, grinning as he stood against the wall.

"Damn you," Brandon laughed through the mouthpiece.

_"I'll see you soon, then."_ Ronnie was feeling pretty satisfied with himself.

Brandon was still smiling when Ronnie hung up.

He grabbed a vase and left it on the counter. He tried to think of an excuse to tell his parents for when they asked him why he had a bouquet. _'It was on sale and I had a five-dollar bill,'_ was his working lie, but it wasn't great. But for all he cared, his parents could think it fell from the sky. He was thrilled to be getting something, let alone flowers, from Ronnie.

He went back upstairs to get decent. His hair got all scruffed up as he pulled his shirt over his head, but that could be brushed out. He tugged his sweatpants off, threw on a new shirt, and a pair of jeans. He almost walked back down the stairs, but he'd forgotten about his hair. He always forgot the hair.

He was standing, waiting, in the kitchen doorway when the doorbell rang. Counting to three as he enthusiastically struts towards the door, his confidence is thriving. It's an encouraging buzz ringing through his ears, ever so gently and constantly. A refreshing change of pace.

"It's good to see you, you handsome nightmare," Ronnie said.

"I don't think the dreams you've been having are nightmares." Brandon was flustered, but he still had his sense of humor about him.

It took Ronnie a second to catch what Brandon was implying. "Oh, you jerk. But I was asking for it."

Brandon motioned for Ronnie to come in. He shut the door behind him.

Ronnie held a bouquet of faded red roses. Brandon stepped back, rocking on the heels of his feet. He took a moment to appreciate the fact he was here. Things changed drastically within the span of a day. If someone had told him about any of it just the week before, he would've laughed it off. 

Life turned on a dime.

The idea of Ronnie going out to buy him a bouquet almost made Brandon happier than the flowers themselves. 

Ronnie handed Brandon the flowers, avoiding eye contact. He was bold and could come on strong, but he was shy, too.

"I may have failed to mention it, but you're like a dream," Brandon said.

"Have I told you that you're goddamn perfect?" Ronnie's timidness and reluctance had been overshadowed by a streak of keenness. It was like that. Waves that came in and out at the drop of a hat.

"I'd kiss you if I wasn't at risk of dropping my roses."

Brandon led Ronnie through the kitchen. Ronnie had been in this house a hundred times, but it had an air of feverishly hot-blooded magic to it now. He hummed as Brandon cut the rose's stems.

Brandon felt a lump in the back of his throat. The pair had established how they felt about one another, and knowing that they felt the same way didn't absolve them of their chemistry. Brandon still felt that tension, but it was different now. He wasn't a nervous wreck. Instead, he was excited. Before, it'd been a mixed bag. A messy concoction of fearing and wanting.

The crippling anxiety had been shifted out, and what remained was damn good. Brandon's knees would still buckle when he heard Ronnie hum, he knew this. And he'd still curl his toes every time Ronnie brushed his hands against his back. Ronnie kissed him and brought him flowers and said everything Brandon would have wanted to hear, but there was still a back and forth to be had. Ronnie was still fun, Brandon still melted at every single word. Everything adored about Ronnie was still there.

"I could use a coffee. Didn't sleep well. Actually, I hardly slept at all," Ronnie said.

"Neither did I." Brandon knew it was for the same reason.

Brandon almost suggested they go out for coffee, but it was more personal staying home. More private. His parents wouldn't be home too soon. 

He turned the coffee machine on as Ronnie watched. Ronnie yawned, and a wave of tiredness washed over Brandon. His legs ached. The drowsiness between his eyes would make him kill a man if only he could be curled up in bed. He'd kill two men if it meant Ronnie could be with him. He knew he was exhausted because the only solutions he could come up with were all related to murder.

The coffee started dripping into the first cup and the steam filled the air with a hearty aroma. Brandon was starting to wake up a bit and sharpen up. That smell was intoxicating.

"It's decaf, by the way," he said.

Ronnie looked perplexed for a second, then realized. "Thought Mormons weren't really supposed to drink hot things at all."

"Depends on who you ask."

Whether the problem was with caffeine or hot drinks, neither or both, Brandon would always hold a grudge about having to settle for caffeine-free cola.

"It's nice anyway."

Brandon grinned behind his mug. He liked making Ronnie happy. The small things were what made him feel tall.

"I've got to know, what are we?" Brandon asked after half a minute. "Actually, what do you want us to be?"

Ronnie was the one smiling now. He looked away from Brandon, though, staring into the dark coffee. "Well, you could be my boyfriend."

Brandon looked Ronnie in the eye, who was still averting his gaze. "A million times yes."

Ronnie pretended to mull this over, looking down to check a watch he wasn't wearing. "I've got nothing better to do, and no one else is lining up to sell me their son or daughter... I'm kidding. Come here." He put his mug on the table and outstretched his arms, offering Brandon a hug.

Brandon set his coffee, which he'd hardly touched, down on the counter, and swung his arms around Ronnie. He breathed a sigh of relief.

All their cards were out on the table now. The weight had been lifted.

With his head burrowed in the crook of Ronnie's neck, Brandon knew that life was good. 


	5. If You Can Keep A Secret

Mark felt that something had changed. Not in the dark, looming way change usually came about, but change nonetheless. He couldn't put his finger on it at first. He thought it may have been the transition of fall fading into wintertime, but it became apparent to him this wasn't the case. It was something more specific.

He started to pinpoint it after school when he and Ronnie met Dave and Brandon at their refuge. An old, beaten up stop sign by the crosswalk. It may have been Monday and they may have all had homework, but they agreed they'd prefer to put those assignments off. 

The change he'd picked up on was about Ronnie. Or maybe it was Brandon. He hadn't narrowed it down yet. In the cafeteria, at lunch, Ronnie seemed calmer than usual. Reserved. Mark originally thought he may have been upset about something, but now, out on the street, Ronnie actually looked happy. Something inside of him lit up. Something that needed lighting up.

Mark couldn't decide if this was what had changed, or maybe a side effect of it, but it was nice to see Ronnie glad to be alive for once. He usually kept up his facade of having a will to live with snarky jokes and an abundance of sighs. It never did work very well.

Something told Mark that maybe he should leave the apparent electricity in the air alone. Some things were not to be poked at, and after all, it may have been in his head. Curiosity killed the cat, right? Though satisfaction brought it back.

He vowed to keep an absent-minded eye out.

The windows in Brandon's kitchen were fogged with frost. It'd been a week, and Mark had mostly forgotten whatever strangeness he'd picked up on the Monday before.

The task was simple: bake for the sale the red school would be having. Even as a not so proud student of the blue, public school, Mark was opposed to helping the other. His knee jerk reaction when Brandon mentioned the bake sale was to run for the hills, but Brandon was helpless in the kitchen. Mark was in the same boat, but two hopeless souls could help one another out.

Ronnie was the only one in their social circle (square, rather) who knew how to cook, but he'd be drumming at the restaurant his mom worked at. He'd gotten inconsistent with that, and needed to get back into it. Dave, who actually went to the catholic school, was busy giving his parents a presentation on why they should get a dog. (Mark would later receive a call from a distressed Dave who'd failed miserably at making a dent in their stone-cold hearts).

Mark was not in the slightest familiar with the organizational system of Brandon's kitchen, and if he couldn't find a measuring cup within the next thirty seconds, he'd blow a fuse. He was already starting to regret volunteering his time He easily could've asked for help, but Brandon was in a groove. Of course he was. He'd given himself the easier task, making fudge, while Mark was entrusted with making _biscuits._ What kind of prestigious twats went to this school? (Other than Dave and Brandon). Everyone whose parents didn't want to subject them to public school.

Unlike the majority of teenagers around, Mark didn't mind the school he went to. It sucked, that much was certain, but at least whentheyhad bake sales, they sold chocolate chip muffins and cookies instead of damned biscuits. 

Mark managed to find a measuring cup. It wasn't actually the right size he'd been looking for, but a rough estimation would have to do. He'd given up on the dream. All perfection ever did was get in the way of progress. The new problem at hand was that he couldn't find any salt, which was one of the few things people were supposed to have a lot of in their kitchens.

Mark thought he heard a loud-pitched shrill, which was annoying in part because it distracted him from intently staring at the kitchen counter, and also because it hurt his ears immensely. He couldn't tell if he was hearing an actual sound or a frequency in his head though. Ever since he'd heard a loud firework crack (or maybe it was a gunshot) in the late summer, he'd heard a constant assortment of sounds. It was usually a uniform ringing or some static, but occasionally it'd be a quiet pulse. After plugging his ears only to find the sound was in his head, he refocused on what was happening in the real world. Brandon was humming something, which was by no means unusual, but it'd captured Mark's attention.

_"His eyes,"_ Brandon said. _"Are like melting chocolate."_

That part had been perfectly audible. Mark stared, tilting his head to the side. He was perplexed. Brandon singing as he cooked, as he worked, was whatever, but this felt...different. Significant. Intuition dragged its finger along the back of Mark's mind, but he couldn't put the pieces together. Something had been moved around, shifted slightly, in the grand scheme of things. He wondered if Brandon had been singing a song, or if it'd been an observation. If so, who about, and most importantly, was he overthinking this? 

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Brandon was literally melting chocolate on the stovetop.

But Mark wasn't really thinking about it, not that hard, anyway. These were things he'd picked up on as they flowed through the river that was his stream of thought, and he hadn't let them go. He could toss them back into the water, like stones. There wasn't much else he could do. He tried to ask something, but to come up with the words to say would be grasping at straws.

Brandon turned around. "Need something?"

Mark snapped his fingers trying to remember what he'd been looking for. "Yes, actually. For the life of me, I can't find any salt..."

The moment had passed. He tossed that stone and it skipped across the water. _Plop._

Mark now noticed the vase of dying flowers on the counter. The faded red of the petals had become darkened and dry. Mark wondered why Brandon's family hadn't thrown them. He'd never know the excuses Brandon told to keep them around.

Friday rolled around, guns blazing, and no one saw it coming. No one would know shots had been fired at the end of the day, except Mark. The metaphorical bullet would clip his shoulder.

Mark was having a pleasant week. He didn't give the oddities he'd noticed earlier much more thought. Ronnie continued to be all smiles, which was nice to see. Whatever the reason was, his cynical walls were coming down. Someone must've taken the bricks and built something else. 

Mark didn't see much of how things were going at the red school—Brandon and Dave had both been pretty occupied and didn't text often. That was okay. They'd all be meeting at their beloved stop sign that afternoon. Junior year had been quick-paced and things were changing fast, but they'd always have Fridays. That crosswalk was sacred to Mark. He held onto it more than he should've, but it was one of the few things in his life he controlled and made an active decision about. It wouldn't last forever, but just a while longer and Mark would be okay.

The bell rang, but Mark had to wait outside of Ronnie's math class for five minutes. Some teachers didn't understand that kids had better things to do at the end of school than listen to an explanation of their worksheet's last problem.

This sort of thing usually gave Ronnie good reason to bitch for the sake of bitching, but when he walked out that classroom door, Mark saw he had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

_'Something has definitely changed,'_ Mark's subconscious reminded him.

_'You're overthinking this again,'_ he lulled back.

Mark shoved his hands in his pockets and put on a wide, pearly white smile. The benefit of leaving school a bit late was that the halls were mostly empty so the two could actually hear one another speak. Ronnie didn't rant about having too much homework or the fact his knee randomly ached when he walked a certain way or even about the fact one of his teachers was in a bad mood and called him 'Ronald'. Instead, he talked about how much he liked his new shoes and how his mom had been smiling more lately. He may have mentioned that he'd been happier too. Mark didn't need to hear it to know it. He'd seen it for himself. 

So Ronnie was talkative and Mark listened contently. It was good to see some things never changed. When they crossed the street, Dave and Brandon were already there waiting.

"They don't teach you how to tell time in public school?" Dave said.

"You're hilarious." Ronnie this time.

Mark was thrown for a loop at that. Any other day, Ronnie would've jumped at the chance to feed the fire and rightfully put Dave in his place. Mark was starting to see the pattern: these days hadn't been like any others.

Dave picked up on this as well. He wasn't mad at the lack of a more colorful response, but he too felt there was something missing. A general lack of jadedness. It'd been replaced with a single ray of zest. It was quiet, but vibrant enough to make itself seen. Of course, Dave didn't think about this for over a minute, unlike Mark who thought about it all too well. 

Thoughts came and went for Dave. For Mark, they lurked and brewed on the backburner. 

Dave laughed it off as he suggested the four go and get hot chocolate. It wasn't really a suggestion as much as it was a demand. He was already steering the group in the direction of a local coffee shop. He still had an affinity for sugary hot drinks. Brandon was coming around to them again, he'd lost his distaste towards them, and Mark and Ronnie felt indifferent. Mark always agreed because he hardly ever had the will to contest Dave. Ronnie always went along because Brandon wanted to. That much stayed the same.

As they walked (Dave skipped with pep to his step, the other three dragged behind), Mark shifted his attention to Brandon. He seemed more or less typical. He also hadn't said anything for the past ten minutes, except to make a comment about Dave's borderline unhealthy infatuation with drinking anything that wasn't water. He noticed Mark staring and gave a quick wave.

That voice in the back of Mark's head kept telling him to quit it, but he was curious. When it came to other people, he couldn't care less, but he was interested as to what his friends were up to. He entertained the possibility that maybe he was the one who'd changed. Maybe he'd picked up a new perspective overnight? But the only variable in his life that'd changed was his mom had told him to stop eating rainbow-colored cereal for breakfast every day. _'Way too sweet,'_ she'd told him, but he was about to get hot chocolate, so who'd won? He'd tried the cereal that had grains and raisins and came to the conclusion it was absolutely disgusting.

Dave got something with 'pumpkin spice' in it, which Mark also thought sounded revolting. 

The coffee shop was dimly lit with dark wooden walls. The atmosphere was cozy, but Mark found it inconvenient. Not being able to see people's faces sort of defeated the point of trying to read them. He could still listen though, and more importantly, he could think. Maybe if he thought hard enough he'd talk himself out of whatever he was doing.

Who was he kidding? Whatever this was, it was the most interesting thing he'd thought about in at least two months.

Dave took a sip of his drink. Mark could vaguely make out the image of him gagging.

"It's not good," Dave sighed.

"I could've told you that one for free. There are things pumpkin just doesn't belong in, and chocolate would be one of those," Mark said.

"Least you can say you tried something new," Ronnie said.

Mark practically shuddered at the thought. He was more than happy in his comfort zone. There was nothing intrinsically wrong with change, but he'd rather not suffer through it. It felt piercing and raw. In Mark's life, change was never smooth. Transitions felt more like being thrown from the frying pan into the fire.

Their escapades at the coffee shop droned on and concluded without much further trauma. Dave was able to stomach his pumpkin spice atrocity, but not without great agony. He eyed Brandon's regular hot chocolate. 

Dave also talked about how his English teacher called him a 'lazy schmuck'. Mark told him he deserved it, and everything was in its rightful place.

The four went to Brandon's house because Brandon had made the mistake of offhandedly mentioning the fact his mom made cookies, and the other three had no sense of pride. The confection was decadent. Dave made sure to let Brandon's mom know in between bites with his mouth stuffed.

They all had a good time. None of Ronnie's anecdotes lived up to the grievances Dave caused everyone around him, but they were funny. Mark was in the middle of explaining how one of his neighbors kept mowing the lawn at five in the morning when Dave got a call from his mom. It was then that she tore him a new one.

Brandon, Ronnie, and Mark couldn't make out much of their conversation, but the gist was this: Dave's mother had gotten a call from his school. The contents of this chat did not paint Dave in a flattering light. One of his teachers had apparently gotten tired of his antics and decided to complain. Mark couldn't tell exactly what it'd been about, and Brandon had nothing to offer either, but the specifics weren't important. Dave was so dead.

His face fell right before his mom hung up. She'd spoken in a mostly understanding tone their entire call, irritated but kind, but she'd made sure to dig the knife in deep that last beat. Dave usually laughed his shortcomings off, but now he felt properly ashamed. Not for the blunders themselves, they were plain funny, but for the fact he'd pissed his parents off and been made to feel like an inconvenience.

He kept that smug expression on his face, but there was a smear of weariness in his voice. "It's been nice knowing you, gentlemen. Get me a nice headstone." 

The other three didn't say anything. There wasn't anything that could be said without diminishing Dave's already faltering self-respect. He gave an ingenuine, worn-out smile. Mark smiled back and waved unenthusiastically as Dave walked out the door.

Brandon opened his mouth to speak but bit his tongue. Dave was a bit of an asshole sometimes and teachers probably didn't deserve having to cope with him on a daily basis, but he didn't need whatever was coming to him. His folks were nice but when they were mad, they were fuming. They wouldn't hold back from spewing strings of insults. The problem, really, was the helplessness. Dave wouldn't be changing anytime soon, and his friends could do nothing to help him out.

Ronnie broke the silence first. 

"He'll work it out. Probably." 

"Fingers crossed he won't," Brandon teased. "It's his funeral and he's cheated death before." 

_'Okay,'_ Mark thought. _'We've decided to brush it off.'_ It was sort of an unspoken rule. Despair and whatever it brought were not meant to be wallowed in. So even though they all had pits of uneasiness in their stomachs, they were joking around.

"Knowing his parents, they'll forget by tomorrow. He'll be back to shit-eating grins by Sunday," Mark said.

Brandon hoped Mark was right. Having class with Dave when he was in a bad mood was like trying to calm down a protective mama bear. He'd either resemble a druggie experiencing withdrawal symptoms or he'd blow up at random jerks in the cafeteria. He'd only been in one actual fistfight his entire high school career, but that was more than his parents cared for. 

The three remaining musketeers sat on Brandon's living room floor, pretending they hadn't just seen Dave walk off to the slaughterhouse. The silence ached on for a few more minutes. It got to Mark. He got tired of counting threads in the carpet real fast.

"You know, I think I might ask for a new bike for Christmas," he said. "Maybe one for mountains or hiking trails."

Brandon and Ronnie both agreed that Mark would either kill himself or break an ankle. Mark appreciated the honesty. He frequently tripped over his own feet, so maybe dirt roads were a bad idea.

Ronnie said something about Mark tying his own shoelaces together and trying to bike that way, and Brandon laughed as if it were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Mark's boredom dazzled out because his attention had been brought to something new. The way Brandon's eyes lit up every time Ronnie came out of his shell. Which was often. 

It was like the way one got caught on an unraveling thread from their sweater's sleeve. It was a minor ordeal, but taken notice of. Mark noticed, the thought traced the back of his neck, and dwindled into nothingness. It felt like he'd forgotten something he couldn't recall, but it was still there. On the tip of his tongue, right below the surface. Just begging for something to scratch at it and set it free. But it sunk like a pebble towards the bottom of the river, and Mark wasn't swimming in his thoughts. He was standing on the shore, watching the outside world play out. If the outside world was Brandon Flowers' living room.

Brandon's mom stood in the doorway, the one leading to the kitchen.

"Your father's going to be home soon. He needs your help taking decorations out of the garage," she said.

Brandon groaned with great torment. "Fine. I'll do it, but I won't be smiling."

"Don't have to be happy about it. Thanks for your service, dear."

Mark felt guilty that he was eager to leave, but Dave's death sentence made him want to lay down on his couch with his arm draped over his eyes. It'd been a fine day, an even better week, up until then. Pumpkin spice and snitching teachers and garage work ruined everything precious.

"Should leave you to it, then," he said.

"Probably," Brandon replied. He was feeling rather cheated that his Friday night had been hijacked by Dave's teachers, his own dad, and whatever else life felt like chucking at him.

They got up, headed towards the door, and Ronnie followed suit. Mark let himself out immediately, but Ronnie trailed behind. That was fine. Mark just wanted to get the hell home as soon as possible. The faster he walked, the faster he'd be in the dark and maybe the pounding headache he'd developed would subside. 

Mark had made significant progress down the sidewalk when he reached into his backpack for his iPod. This was when he realized his cell phone wasn't there. He sighed. Add another inconvenience to the list.Heheaded back towards the Flowers' household.

The two-story house had been made small with all that distance, but it got bigger and bigger as he strode forward. That front doorstep got clearer and clearer too. He could see that the door was closed behind Ronnie and Brandon. Ronnie must've said something really fuckin' funny because Brandon was laughing. Even from far away, Mark could faintly hear the roaring. Brandon's hands were on his knees and Ronnie wore a self-satisfied grin. It was then that Mark felt something ill in the pit of his stomach, and he wondered if it'd been his decreasingly unlucky day or the hot chocolate he'd drunk. Like something bad was about to happen, or that maybe he'd see something he wasn't supposed to.

That was silly, though.

Brandon wrapped his arms around Ronnie's neck and kissed him, still giggling. Mark looked at this spectacle for a moment before what was going on registered in his mind. 

He smiled to himself and turned around. He didn't know if Ronnie had seen him, but it didn't look it. Things were okay either way.

Mark's stomach felt fine, that tension between his eyes became less tight, and the sun was remarkably bright for a winter day. If the neighbors had been listening, they would've heard him whistling.

Dave was not usually a remarkable observer. He didn't pick up on little details and he couldn't read people. He could barely read a book. He was more than aware of these faults. Knowing this, he cautiously made a note to himself that Mark acted strangely that day. Winter break was coming up, so it could've been the restless anticipation making its rounds in the cold air. But this fretfulness wasn't a side effect of the frenzied delights of the holidays, it stemmed from secrecy.

_Secrecy._ That was the word Dave had been thinking of. It'd just hardly slipped him.

This didn't bother him much. He didn't think Mark could be getting up to anything illicit like selling weed behind his school's gym. Whatever he was hiding, it wasn't really Dave's business. At the same time, Mark was his friend and that made their business shared. Dave was curious, but not concerned. He tried to stomp that nosiness out like a small campfire, but the embers kept their hot flame. This motivation was selfish, he wanted to know for the sake of knowing, not to help if anything was wrong.

But chances that anything was actually wrong were slim to none, so Dave took some comfort in that.

He threw a rubber bouncy ball against the ceiling repeatedly. He'd been doing this while laying on his bed for about half an hour, and the ball had only hit him in the face twice. For now, that was a win in his book. It was already Wednesday night. Almost half a week since his teacher's scolding phone call, and he was still grounded. That meant no cellphone, no TV, and worst of all, no Nintendo. Technically, his parents hadn't physically taken his phone, the remote, or his controllers, but he knew he'd actually be dead if he got caught using them. He'd also be dead if his parents found out he'd spent half an hour after school with his friends. 

His phone was on the nightstand, calling his name. He tossed the rubber ball against the ceiling again to keep his hands occupied.

Nope, nope, nope. Not gonna pick up. If not for his own dignity, then for his parents' pride. They'd be disappointed in him, and he disappointed them often enough as it was.

The slick, red shell gleamed against the light of his lamp. So pretty, and what an excellent waste of time.

He threw the ball harder this time and was almost surprised when no cracks in the ceiling emerged. There wasn't even anything for him to do on his phone. He was just deprived of blue light and screens and instant gratification.

Until it started vibrating. He wasn't going to pick up, really. Dave was raised to be an honest guy. But his parents were out, they'd never know, and hey, what if it was an emergency? And he'd already screwed up, so he may as well keep it coming.

He flipped it open, accepted the call without bothering to check who was dialing, and said, "Hello?"

_"Dave? It's me. Mark. Just got my phone from Brandon today...I left it at his house on Friday."_

Dave couldn't imagine going so many days without his cell. "Why didn't you just walk back when you forgot it?"

_"I, uh, didn't notice I'd left it."_

Dave was no eagle, but he could see that Mark was lying from a mile away. The words sounded honest, but he knew Mark always listened to music when walking home alone. He also knew that Mark kept both his iPod and cellphone in his backpack's front pocket. He would've noticed the phone was gone. Dave gave himself a pat on the back for realizing all that. And plus, even though Ronnie could've relayed anything important, Mark was just as addicted to his phone as Dave was.

"Well, good for you. Breaking free from technology for a bit." 

Mark laughed, in a stifled sort of way. _"Sure."_

"Well, I've gotta go..." He reconsidered. "Actually, I've got something to ask you about."

_"Alright, ask me then."_ Mark cursed himself. He had an inkling as to what this was about. He didn't know what could've given it away.

"Are you alright? You seemed off today."

_"Me? Yeah. I'm great! Feeling good."_

Dave contemplated bashing the cellphone against his forehead. That was exactly the type of false-hearted reply he wasn't hoping for. He didn't like confrontation, but he'd shot himself in the knee here. He walked right into this.

"You're a bad liar," he replied. "Maybe what you're saying is partially true...but you're hiding something."

Mark bit his bottom lip, trying to decide what he'd do next. He could lie to try and dig his way out of this one. Dave probably wouldn't believe him, hell, he definitely wouldn't, but whatever Brandon and Ronnie got up to behind closed doors was not his matter to disclose to whoever. On the other side of this damned coin, Dave already knew something was up, and he'd eventually catch on somehow. If he was looking for this, he was going to find it.

_"Let's talk about this tomorrow."_ Mark caved, halfway. Bought some time. He had a day to decide if he'd come up with something stupid but believable, or if he'd tell the truth. Two weren't supposed to be able to keep a secret. Maybe if their best friends' interests depended on it, they could. Three was a crowd. Four could be a party. 

Dave congratulated himself for being such a wonderful sleuth. He also felt bad.

"Alright then. Should I meet you by the stop sign?"

Thursday meant the typical four wouldn't be meeting up like they did every Friday and most Wednesdays. But Brandon and Dave still walked together on other days of the week. This was an obstacle Dave had to avoid. He felt guilty he had to lie in order to get to the truth, but he told Brandon he had to stay late after school to talk to a teacher. It was a simple but clever maneuver. Unless Brandon spotted Mark on the street while Dave was waiting it out. 

Mark was pale. Too pale. He looked sick, and that made Dave feel like he might actually throw up. Mark was wearing the face of a man, no, a boy, who'd been thinking a lot. Dave may have opened a can of worms that should've stayed shut instead. Whatever this was, whatever he was about to hear, it required some heavy contemplation. That was potentially shitty with a capital S.

Dave tried to ease his nerves, which occurred in the form of a mumbled joke. "Mark, this is an intervention. We're all concerned about you..."

Mark smiled at that. It was more polite and anxious than anything else.

"I'm embarrassed that I've only been able to keep this secret a week," Mark replied. "Seeing as it's not really my secret to tell."

"Don't tell me then."

Mark looked around, having realized outside in the neighborhood was not an appropriate place for this conversation to occur. He whispered. "Well, if you don't tell them I told you, it might be better if you knew."

Dave had offered Mark an out, and he'd rejected it. This pleased Dave. As much as he hated it, he was damn curious. And 'them' was oh so intriguing. There were worse things and it never killed anyone.

"But we probably shouldn't talk about this here," Mark added.

Dave sighed. He was hoping to get this over with fast so his parents wouldn't notice he'd done something other than just walk home. They wouldn't be home just yet, but he'd be cutting it close.

"We can go to my house," Dave said. He was betting on good luck.

Mark paced around Dave's living room. They'd walked in complete silence, which had given his brain the chance to wallow in what was to come. The nerves of impending doom had kicked in.

"I don't know where to start," Mark said.

"The beginning would be nice."

"I don't know when the beginning was, it was probably a long time ago, but I know where I come into play. It was Friday, after you had to leave. Brandon's mom needed him to do something so Ronnie and I had to go. I was out the door first—Ronnie trailed behind. Whatever, I thought. But then I realize, God help me, I'd forgotten my phone."

Mark was grimacing now, still pacing back and forth across the carpet. Dave was distressed as ever. Now that he knew Ronnie and Brandon were a part of this equation, things started to spiral. Mark was acting as if he'd shot a man, but Brandon seemed fine at school, so what could've happened?

"Go on," Dave urged.

"I turned around." Mark closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. He felt chills. This really wasn't his story to tell and yet he was telling it, and for the love of everything holy, he didn't know why.

"Mark, you're freaking me out a bit. Is everything okay?"

That damned question again. "Everything's fine. I saw Brandon and Ronnie kissing, which is absolutely and totally fine. The not so fine part is the fact I told you—why did I do that?"

Mark put his hand over his mouth once he'd realized the words had slipped in a less than elegant manner.

"Good for them." Dave grinned. Not the best timing, but he couldn't help it. "Damn it, I never would've guessed."

"You're welcome, then." Joking eased Mark a bit. "I don't think I would've realized it by myself, but it makes sense."

Dave didn't really know what to say to that, mostly because he agreed. It wasn't too obvious, nothing had been hiding out in broad daylight right in front of their eyes. But knowing it now, it felt right. 

"Well, I guess we need to decide if this is going to be a problem," Mark said after a moment while pulling candy out of his pocket.

"Hell, it's definitely a problem."

"What the fuck, Dave? I'd never think youwere homophobic," Mark blanched, chewing on a banana-flavored Laffy taffy.

"I said it was good! I don't give a shit if they're gay. The problem is this: if they break up, we can't all be friends anymore."

"Who says?"

"I dunno. Girls always fight over this kind of stuff."

"They're not girls, Dave. And I don't think they'll break up, honest. At least not anytime soon. You should've seen it. When Brandon kissed him, he put one hand on Ronnie's back and the other on the back of his neck. And Ronnie ran his hands through Brandon's hair. It was like, not to be cheesy, but it was like two puzzle pieces coming together. I don't think I've ever seen my parentskiss like that."

"Jesus, Mark. Why the fuck would you compare Ronnie and Brandon to your parents? Of course you've never seen them kiss like that. Brandon and Ronnie are young, attractive, whatever. Your mom and dad are far past their prime. Anyway. What'd you do next?"

"Geez, way to compliment my folks. A charmer, you are, really. You're an idiot, Dave. What do you think I did? I took half a second to collect my jaw off the floor and then I turned right back around and walked home."

"So they don't know that you know?"

Mark looked as if this were the most obvious fact known to mankind. "Of course they don't know." He rolled his eyes. "Was I supposed to shout it from a rooftop?"

"That would've been a more convenient way to tell me." 


	6. High Places

Given the zeal with which they were kissing and the sporadic beating of his heart, Brandon thought he might just drop dead. That, he believed, would be a fair sacrifice. A decent tradeoff. He was having fun. And given all the fear and shame that'd preceded, what a pleasant surprise it was that this whole thing was fun. With his eyes closed, all Brandon could see was the color orange. What a brilliant and marvelous color it was.

Ronnie was feeling pretty self-satisfied. He'd gotten the boy, best part, and it hadn't come at the expense of his friendships. Not committing social suicide was always a plus. He took great pride in knowing, well, thinking, that he'd gone sly and unnoticed. If he knew Mark and Dave had him all figured out, his ego would've been knocked down a couple of notches. But that wouldn't be so bad. It'd be humbling. Maybe he even deserved that. He'd gotten what he wanted, _who_ he wanted, and the rest could be damned. This aspect of his life was going right. 

His mom walked through the hallway bearing a laundry basket. She'd gotten home from work, unannounced, and now had a uniform, among other things, that needed to be washed. She ran into a bit of an obstacle. In the laundry room, she discovered that Ronnie had left his clothes in the washer. If she'd known Ronnie had a friend over, she wouldn't have bothered him about it just then. But she didn't know.

When she got up to the door, she could only see a sliver into the room. As if someone had gotten careless when going to shut it, Ronnie's bedroom door was a crack away from being closed. Ronnie's mom saw this as 'open'. She didn't think anything of it. It took a moment for what she saw to click. What she did see was her son making out with someone, on the bed. She couldn't tell exactly who it was and thought it was none of her business, but the boy looked familiar. Whether Ronnie had a boyfriend and never cared to tell her or this was just what friends platonically got up to these days, she figured she should mention it later. 

But not now. There was laundry to be done, plants to be watered, and shows to tune in to on television. She gently pulled the doorknob back towards herself. There was a time and place for everything. This was the time for privacy.

Ronnie's friend, who his mother recognized as Brandon, a regular at the Vannucci household, left a while later. Ronnie and his mom were now sitting at the kitchen table. Ronnie was thumbing through a comic book. He couldn't focus on the words, but he'd promised to give it back to Mark as soon as possible. A bit ironic since Mark actually slipped it from Dave. His mom was peeling potatoes.

"Did you have a nice day?" she asked.

Ronnie fought the inclination to smile as he recalled the hours previous. "Yeah. Brandon and I played cards for a while and I don't have a lot of homework. And hey, winter break's pretty soon. It's been a good day." 

He had to mull it over before he spoke but his straight face was eerily good.

His mom thought back to a time in her teen years. She told her dad she'd been playing Go Fish with her friends, and he asked if that was code for strip poker. He was joking, but she didn't find it funny. Not one bit. Interesting years those had been. 

"You know what you want for Christmas yet?" The underlying point there was that she'd be getting a better bonus than year's previous.

Ronnie realized he hadn't drummed at the restaurant in weeks. This meant no tips, which meant no cash, which also meant no funds to get his mom and friends gifts. On the subject of what _he_ wanted, he thought he was getting a bit old for wishlists.

"I can't think of anything, actually," he replied.

In part, this was a lie. He thought about how old his bike was and how he needed a thicker coat. But if it wasn't broken, it didn't need fixing. He was happy with what he had. Nothing to do with material objects. Although the paint on his bike _was_ starting to rust.

"We'll come up with something. There's something you and I should talk about, though." She put the peeler down and wiped her hands off with a kitchen towel. 

"Oh. Is it something bad?" Ronnie asked.

Shaking her head 'no', she sighed. There was no handbook on how to go about this. "It's nothing to be worried about. It's a good thing. But long overdue we talk about it, hun. Ronnie, you know there are women who date women and men who date men, right?"

A bit patronizing to open with something so obvious, but she had to start somewhere. So she started there. Ronnie groaned. It was 2007 and he was a junior in high school. He wasn't living under a rock.

"Mom, I know what gay people are."

"Good! That's good. So I'm going to assume you also know that gay people can still get STDs and need to be safe—"

"Jesus Christ." Ronnie hid his face in his hands. "Just to be clear, this is embarrassing. Why are we talking about this?" 

She rested her chin on her fist. This conversation had taken an undesired turn.

"You need to know it's alright. People are not as different from one another as some would like you to believe..."

And that was when her voice began to break. She quickly wiped the tear that'd trailed down her cheek. Taking a deep breath, she extended her arms and held Ronnie's hands in hers.

She continued. "I want you to be really happy with your life. My love for you is unconditional, okay? And even if it wasn't, there's nothing wrong with being gay anyway."

By now, the tears streaming down her face were more than few. But she wasn't sad. There was no panging of regret or disappointment in her chest. She was worried. This was a reminder that she couldn't protect him from the outside world. Was there any shelter or comfort she could provide now? He'd already seen life for what it was.

This had to be about him, not her. Everything she did was for him. This was to be no different.

Ronnie wrung his hands and leaned back in his chair. His mouth contorted in thought.

"So, I guess you know?" he asked.

"I got a bit ahead of myself... I wasn't trying to coax you into saying anything. I would've wanted you to tell me on your own terms. But we never really talked about this sort of thing. I thought you should know how I feel."

"No, it's okay. I wouldn't have just come out and said it. I didn't think it was something I had to declare to you. But I also knew you'd be fine with it."

Ronnie hadn't been completely confident his mom would understand. As she said herself, they'd never discussed it. But what Ronnie did know, what he'd always known, was that the love his mom had for him wouldn't ever magically disappear. It was what she needed to hear.

She sighed in relief.

"But seriously, how'd you know?" He asked. "Was it that obvious?"

"I got home 'bout an hour early. I went by your room. The door was open."

Ronnie's mouth dropped open, just a bit. He knew she couldn't have seen anything too bad. But Christ, he'd convinced himself he was oh so slick. This would be fine. Of course. 

Brandon sat up on his bed that night, eyeing his phone. Sometimes, most of the time, Ronnie would call right before he went to sleep. Just to say good night. Sometimes he wouldn't. Brandon wouldn't stay up waiting, but he looked forward to it. It was okay, looking forward to things that didn't always happen.

The phone rang. He jumped at the sound. He'd looked away for one moment, and that was when it caught him off guard.

_"Okay, so, interesting turn of events,"_ Ronnie said.

It looked like Brandon was in for a full-blown conversation. He didn't mind.

_"—And hey, no one else can hear this right now, yeah?"_

"Yeah, I'm in my room," Brandon replied, anxiously waiting for Ronnie to continue.

_"Don't freak out or anything, okay?"_

"Don't tell me not to panic, you'll freak me out." Too late. 

_"It's not a big deal! Well, it is. But it's not bad. I promise. It's, I don't know how else to say it so I'll just say it, my mom knows."_

Brandon felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. This wasn't particularly upsetting information. It came as a shock, which made him the fool more than anyone else. Was it really a surprise that she'd picked up on it? He was over at Ronnie's house nearly every day. The same could not be said for Mark nor Dave. That alone was enough to raise some eyebrows.

"She knows?As in, you and me? How?" He tried to stay calm, but he also had an overwhelming need to know everything. Knowing gave him control. A little bit of control went a long way.

_"She may or may not have seen us kissing earlier. Okay, she definitely did."_

Brandon quietly counted to ten. He needed to remind himself how to breathe. And how to speak. "I'm not so fond of your mom having seen us making out. It could be worse, though, I guess."

It could always get worse.

When the waitress at the diner asked if the four would be ordering dessert, Dave fully anticipated Mark would ask for the check. Instead, Mark ordered a slice of 'famous' devil's food cake. The other three said they were alright. Dave glared at Mark.

Dave pointed to an imaginary watch on his wrist.

"The movie starts in twenty-five minutes," he said.

They still had to walk to the theater, buy tickets, and find their seats.

"And you barely even like chocolate cake," Dave concluded.

Mark smiled uncomfortably. Dave could recall the most unnerving details for the sake of being passive-aggressive. Any other time, he was careless. Ronnie and Brandon were sitting across from Mark and Dave in the booth. They looked on expectantly. Expecting an explanation of sorts. 

As if it were common knowledge, Mark blurted out: "Guilty as charged. I always get dessert so Ronnie and Brandon can hold hands for a while longer."

Brandon gripped Ronnie's hand tighter. A bit too firm. His nails dug into Ronnie's palm. He was wearing a dark cherry red sweater and his face was now a similar color. Dave looked at Mark, back at Ronnie and Brandon, and deep inside his soul too, momentarily contemplating the mistakes that got him there.

"Do they know that we know?" Dave asked.

""They" just so happen to be sitting right here," Brandon said.

"The devil's a goddamn liar. First my mom, now you two. All in one week. Bunch of perverts."

"Technically, I wouldn't have known if Mark hadn't told me. Blame him."

"It's not as bad as it looks. I saw you guys and told myself I'd keep my mouth shut. If Dave hadn't badgered me, I wouldn't have told him."

Ronnie spoke before Dave had the chance to defend his good name and clarify that he hadn't hounded Mark at all.

"Okay, well, that's exactly how it looked in the first place."

"Then it doesn't look that bad, does it?" Mark asked nervously.

Ronnie shrugged (as much as he could without letting go of Brandon's hand). Mark looked worried he'd upset them. Seeing as Ronnie was almost completely unbothered, this said a lot. Ronnie was caught off guard but after the situation with his mom, nothing could phase him.

"I think what Mark is really trying to say is that we're sorry for keeping secrets, for like five days max. And we think you're both great! Even better together as the beautiful homosexuals you are," Dave said. His smile fell when he realized he should've cut that ramble a sentence short.

"You kept the fact you knew our secret a secret. I think that's forgivable," Brandon said, all but recovering from the phrase 'beautiful homosexuals'.

"If anything, we'd be the ones apologizing. Which we aren't, because it wasn't actually lying since you never asked," Ronnie said.

"Oh geez. I'm so sorry I never thought to ask my best friends if they were dating. Must've slipped my mind," Dave replied.

"Better not be a smartass. They can gang up on you now," Mark said.

Something about the expression on Ronnie's face told Dave Mark was right.

Almost like divine intervention, that was when the waitress brought Mark his cake. He had no appetite, but he was celebrating. On everyone else's behalf. Things had gone well, nothing and changed, and they were all better for it. Brandon looked like he might pop an artery, but he was otherwise okay.

Brandon and Ronnie walked arm in arm through the empty streets. And why the hell not? Mark and Dave already knew. There was no one else around to question it.

Fresh white snow crunched beneath their feet. As the vibrant exterior of the cinema came into view, Brandon realized that, yeah, this was damn good. The sun was cloaked behind the clouds, making the sky bleak, but it felt like the sun was out. Despite the cold, the day was shaping up to be one of those fuzzy warm ones. 

Brandon didn't pay the movie much mind, but the others seemed to enjoy it. And Dave only threatened to kill the man texting in front of them once. Overall, the four were on a winning streak.

On Saturday, it was cold outside. Snowflakes danced in the air through the morning, and their icy chill made itself known long into the night.

Brandon and Ronnie were sitting on the porch. There was nothing to see. Ronnie's backyard was plain, maybe even ugly by some standards. It wasn't all that well kept. Too many other things to worry about to bother. But they were watching the sunset, heaven changing hues for the evening, and most of all, they were watching each other. Ronnie watched as Brandon shivered. He didn't like it much.

He took his sweater off, it was navy blue, and helped Brandon put it on. Brandon, much to Ronnie's surprise, didn't protest.

"Just like in the movies. You're such a sap, you know that?" Brandon said. "Hey, what happened to your orange sweater? The one you always used to wear."

"Hm? I still have it. Why?"

Brandon shook his head as he laughed. "Nothing. It just looks good on you, is all."

Ronnie always thought he looked a bit awkward wearing it; The sleeves were rather long.

It was the first day of winter break. Brandon's mom wanted him home that night so they could decorate for Christmas. Brandon told her he'd already promised Ronnie he'd help him out the same day. That was a lie, of course. It was easier than explaining the real reason why the pair were inseparable.

They sat in silence. Brandon rested his head on Ronnie's shoulder and listened to him breathe. It was like sleeping near the sea, where the quiet crashing of the waves could lull Brandon to sleep. The world was so loud, filled with so much white noise. They were away from it all, if only for a little while. When one of them had something clever or sweet or beautiful to say, they'd talk. And when there was nothing to be said, or the way they cared for one another could say it for them, they were quiet. The quiet was lovely.

When given the room to sit with his thoughts, Brandon could slow down and appreciate this. Really comprehend the fortune he had. He had Ronnie, who felt the same way he did, and he had wonderful friends, who were brilliant. And now he had the chance to really sink his teeth in and indulge in the knowledge of it. The fact he was very much loved. The fact he'd been so terrified, it used to eat him up inside, and then when he opened up, Ronnie wrapped his arms around him.

When Brandon's head on Ronnie's shoulder became dead weight, it was evident it was time to sleep. They went inside.

Brandon practically collapsed on the couch. Ronnie didn't have the heart to make him budge. Plus, his mom was asleep upstairs. If he tried to carry Brandon up, it'd make an alarming amount of noise.

Ronnie tiptoed up the stairs to brush his teeth and grab a blanket and pillows. Ronnie changed into nightwear. He brought an extra pair of pajamas down for Brandon, even though he was already asleep. It was the polite thing to do.

To fit on the couch, Ronnie had to hang his arm over Brandon's chest. His leg ended up wrapped around Brandon's. Judging from the happy sound Brandon made, this was by all means alright.

Ronnie had the best sleep he'd gotten in weeks.

When he woke up, the birds outside were still chirping. He laid still for what felt like a lifetime. The blanket, which he'd abandoned on the nearby coffee table, was now draped over him and Brandon. He smiled when he realized his mom must've done that. She probably saw the spare pajamas, which would've made her happy. 

Once Ronnie un-entangled himself from Brandon, he spotted a piece of paper left on the table. Getting up was the last thing he wanted to do but he thought he'd make breakfast. Just like in the movies. But not exactly, a bit better than that. 'Cus they didn't do the talk like the talk on the TV.

The note was short. Ronnie's mom wrote she'd be at the grocery store. She asked that they finish the bagels (they would go stale soon) and the milk (it'd go sour in a few days).

He put the two remaining bagels in the toaster, second-guessed whether or not those were supposed to be toasted, and left them in there anyway. While he was at it, he put a pan on the stove, melted a bit of butter, and cracked two eggs in a bowl. Nothing ended up in flames, which meant he was a natural already.

He was too occupied trying to figure out a way to use all the milk to notice when Brandon woke up. Brandon watched quietly, leaning against the doorway. It was only when he started to absentmindedly whistle that Ronnie noticed he was there.

"You look good with bedhead," Ronnie said.

"Yeah, right."

Brandon ran his hands through his hair, overly aware of his appearance. He couldn't do anything about his well-worn jeans or wrinkled sweater, the latter of which didn't even belong to him.

"You're very lovable when you're half-asleep, too."

"I'm awake." Brandon yawned. He bit his bottom lip as he thought. And then, after a moment of mindless consideration: "It kinda scares me how much I like you."

Early morning words rolled off the tongue like honey from a drunken man's mouth. Coffee instead of mead, though Brandon didn't drink coffee. But surely he was drunk on sleep.

Ronnie tried to come up with words to say. He fell short. There wasn't any proper way to describe how he felt. And if there was, he would've been too afraid to say it. So he hugged Brandon instead, tightly and for a long time. The silence spoke for them.

In the meanwhile, the eggs burned. Ronnie was disappointed in himself. They weren't inedible though, and Brandon appreciated them nonetheless. His stomach had been empty. He would've loved anything Ronnie made for him.

As they ate, Ronnie was quiet. He was distracted. This was the type of worry that bound itself in endless knots. Infinite rabbit holes of personal misery. It was a problem he couldn't do much about. For this reason, he felt it may be wiser to not trouble Brandon with it.

He frowned at that thought. If he couldn't talk about this, he'd never be able to find the words to express his feelings for Brandon. And then the silence would speak for him all the time. Sometimes that was okay, it was enough. And sometimes it wasn't. Silence could embrace, but it could also dishearten.

"You know what's been on my mind lately?" He said. "My mom. I always think about her, but this is stuck in my head now. I can't stop thinking about how hard she works. Long and odd hours at the restaurant, dealing with my bullshit, all the little things I may never see. I don't know how she does it. It just really bothers me that she never catches a break."

Brandon was taken aback by the sudden onslaught of rambling sentences. But he was glad Ronnie had finally said something unrestrained. Something perfectly honest. He mulled it over before he spoke.

"I'm in no place to tell you how to feel. So I won't. But I hope you remember that she does it because she loves you. That's it. That's the sole reason. Everything for you. And one day, when the shoe is on the other foot, and trust me, it will be, you can be the one to take care of her. You're not a burden, okay? You're her son."

Ronnie thought about that for a minute.

"You're right... I'm sad things had to be this way. But nothing ever just stays the same. Someday, it'll change for the better." Ronnie thought if he said it enough, he might just believe it.

"Some idiots wrote the rules of the game long before you and I ever got to play it. But there's always a way up. Become the master of your prison and all that jazz."

They left it at that.

Ronnie washed the dishes, there were very few, though Brandon insisted on helping clean up. There was nothing welcoming about making a guest tidy up; Just like there was nothing cordial about letting someone pay the tab on a meal you invited them out for, Ronnie said. Brandon would've said the same had their roles been reversed.

Brandon went to the bathroom, the one by the living room, and got himself cleaned up. Still couldn't do much about his jeans. At least he looked presentable. Once he'd done the best he could, he returned to his post, the kitchen door frame. If he leaned against it often enough, he might make a permanent indent in the wood. He didn't mind watching. It was nice to be in Ronnie's presence, no matter how small the moment.

When the last plate was on the drying rack, Ronnie turned around to see Brandon standing there.

"What are you staring at?" Ronnie asked. He had an inkling as to what the answer was.

"You. You're pretty. Handsome. I don't know, do you find 'pretty' condescending or attractive?"

"I can't tell if I want to kiss you or push you off a cliff right now," Ronnie responded, shaking his head as he dried his hands. "Guess that answers your question for you." Caught somewhere in the middle. Always in between.

Brandon looked away with his hands in his pockets, asking himself if he was really about to say the words bouncing around his brain. Yes, yes he was.

"How about this? Shove me onto the bed, or the couch, I don't have a strong preference, then kiss me. You know, best of both worlds sort of compromise."

Ronnie laughed, mostly because he thought Brandon was real funny. As they walked up the stairs, Brandon smiled too, though he was completely serious. There was a bit more laughter after that, and a bit more quiet too. 


	7. Out for the Count

It was 2008. Senior year, in the grand scheme of things, didn't change much for the four boys. They all had college to freak out over, among other equally unimportant items of bullshit on the itinerary. Mark believed every day was the end of the world. Dave did not. In a way, they were both right and both wrong. Perspective slanted the bigger picture. Made things askew. If you burned their individual truths together, you might get something resembling reality.

Get down to it and, really, days were mostly the same. They looked and even felt different, but that was a matter of appearances. A critical eye would reveal it was all patterns. Dig beyond surface-level and the nitty-gritty was always more familiar than it appeared. 

The most sickeningly obvious item on the list of things that remained the same? Brandon still adored Ronnie. Quite luckily, Ronnie still adored him back.

Though it was late at night, Mark was cutting into a pancake when he made a cringe-worthy change of subject.

"Winter ball's coming up," he said.

The casually careless expression on his face was ungracefully illuminated by the diner's dingy lights.

"So?" Dave asked. Playing dumb was a loser's game. He was a glutton for punishment.

"Oh, no," Brandon said.

"Prom at our school will absolutely suck. Leave room for Jesus and all that," Dave said, all matter-of-fact. And in a whisper, "what about Brandon and Ronnie?"

"Ronnie, you and Brandon can come to the dance at our school," Mark said.

"Sure, okay, but it's cowboy-themed, which is plain weird. It'll bring out all the country kids," Ronnie said.

Dave smiled. He'd decided to humor Mark. "You ever seen Brokeback Mountain?"

"Classy as always, Dave," Ronnie said.

Mark, this time: "it's a good movie."

"It might be fun," Brandon said. He hadn't warmed up to the idea. He just didn't care to fight it. When Mark wanted to do something, he could pull at all the right heartstrings. Never intentionally cruel, no, but he could accidentally guilt-trip as if he were walking with tied shoelaces.

"Oh, it'll be so much fun," Dave said. Dances were miserable, but he was past that now. He'd pay real money to see Ronnie make a fool of himself in a cowboy hat.

Ronnie was now outnumbered. He fought the urge to ask, _'are you all out of your fucking minds?'_ He took a sip of his watered-down coke. "What happened to personal agency and autonomy?"

"You're using words I don't understand again," Dave huffed sarcastically.

"If you don't come, I'll be sad," Brandon pouted. "It's our last year of high school—thank God. Let's just have some fun, make a couple of memories. Why not?"

Try as he might, Ronnie couldn't say no to that face. "Okay then, fine. But we are _not_ wearing cowboy hats."

"Shit. That was gonna be the best part." It goes without saying, but that was Dave.

It was late November when the blue school held their prom. Still, they called it the winter ball. The fact this event took place during autumn bothered no one, except Mark. He was a stickler for technicalities.

In his borderline decent car, Dave picked Mark and Ronnie up. Then they all headed to Brandon's house.

Ronnie's mom made Ronnie promise he'd get photos of him and Brandon. Ronnie tried to explain that asking Mrs. Flowers for this would be incredibly suspicious. Ms. Vannucci was uninterested in excuses. She was going to get a nice picture of her son and his boyfriend. End of story. If that required moving heaven and earth or a sacrifice to a pagan god, so be it. Maybe it wasn't thatserious, but Ronnie had a plan.

When Dave glanced over to the passenger seat, he saw that Ronnie had brought a black bag. It was made of woven plastic material and had a red shoulder strap. Dave assumed it was for a camera. He decided not to ask.

When Dave pulled up in Brandon's driveway, Ronnie realized his palms were clammy. He'd been here countless times, and he'd had plenty of conversations with Brandon's parents. But talking about the subject of prom could go downhill fast. When lying to adults, Ronnie was prone to tripping over his words. It was hard enough to decide what to say in the first place. Choosing the correct words and getting them out in the right order (without choking) was even more difficult.

It wasn't like Ronnie would've been able to say anything anyway. He was lost for words. In his modest opinion, Brandon looked staggeringly remarkable. He wore a white button-up shirt and a gray blazer. And hey, it actually fit him well. It _wasn't_ a hand-me-down from Shane. Ronnie wore a plain black suit.

Dave thought they'd both look better with cowboy hats.

To no one's surprise except Ronnie's, Brandon's mom didn't interrogate any of them. She snapped a few photos, Ronnie knew the lighting was no good, and then she sent them on their way. She didn't even comment on the lack of girls. That was just about right. Dave would've preferred staring straight at the sun over pursuing a relationship. Mark was indifferent. But between school, sleep, and his friendships, he had bigger fish to fry. Ronnie and Brandon set a high bar. Neither Mark nor Dave wanted to try and meet it.

Once they were all outside, Ronnie grabbed his camera from the front seat. He told Brandon to stay on the steps. He looked back and forth between Mark and Dave, trying to decide who to entrust with taking pictures. Mark was the lesser of two imbeciles.

Ronnie joined Brandon on the steps. He wrapped his arm around Brandon's shoulder.

"Pictures for my mom," Ronnie explained.

Brandon nodded. He hoped he'd get a copy of the photos too. It'd be nice, having a memento like that. He had notes (okay, more like letters) from Ronnie, which was such an intentional thing to give someone if you didn't go to the same school as them. Sometimes Ronnie would hide them in Brandon's backpack while he wasn't looking. And sometimes Brandon would hand him a folded-up note under the table at the diner. And Brandon kept random diner napkins too, which to anyone else would seem ridiculous. He knew why he kept the ones he did. The everyday things were the stuff Brandon was sentimental about. Photos had a certain maturity though, a facet the other things lacked. They'd complete his collection. For now. 

The light provided by the streetlights wasn't much better than that of the Flowers' living room. The sky was dark navy and black. It was almost hard to see. If they all squinted, they could see faint stars peeking out from behind the clouds and light pollution.

Mark snapped a couple of photos. _God,_ Ronnie thought, _did he keep the flash on? Or was that automatic?_

"Brandon, kiss him!" Dave shouted.

Ronnie didn't get the chance to tell Dave to 'shut the fuck up before one of the neighbors hears'. Brandon kissed his cheek and Mark took the photo. It ended up being their best picture, so Ronnie didn't curse Dave out.

They pulled up at the school. As Dave parked, he told Ronnie and Brandon to wait in the car.

"I'm going to find a cowboy hat," Dave said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Maybe someone left one somewhere."

"And I'm going to help him," Mark said.

Ronnie got the gist that they had been set up. He didn't think Dave would have much luck in finding a hat—no one with any sense of pride would take the western theme seriously. He simply gave a wordless thumbs up.

Dave didn't bother locking the car door, so Ronnie got out of the front passenger seat to sit in the back with Brandon. He had no idea what they were supposed to be doing, but that was how things went most of the time. Sitting in silence would be comfortable. 

Brandon took a deep breath. A sigh, as if he were preparing to confess something. This wasn't a confessional and Ronnie wasn't a priest but for his part, he kept an open ear. 

"Something wrong?" Ronnie asked. It was more like following a cue than it was asking a genuine question. He already knew the answer. Or somewhere thereabouts.

"Yes. No! Maybe. I'm excited. Sort of. I'm supposed to be excited, right? But I don't want to have to," he paused, "act straight. Does that make sense? That might've sounded stupid."

And so Pandora's box cracked wide open. 

"No, it's not stupid," Ronnie said. "If it makes you feel any better, everyone else will be too occupied with themselves to notice us. And there'll probably be somebody who spikes the punch, too, so there's always that."

Brandon laughed. A genuine, hearty laugh. "God, if people heard the conversations we have—You're lucky you're funny. And cute."

Ronnie was going to have to pat himself on the back for that one.

Then, under his breath, Brandon muttered something about Ronnie's tie not looking right and he leaned forward to fix it. He ended up pulling Ronnie in and kissing him, to which Ronnie responded by running his hands through Brandon's hair. Going through the motions of quietly freaking out, going to fix your boyfriend's tie, and then kissing him in the span of thirty seconds was a completely normal escalation of events to Brandon. Ronnie found this was a pleasing spot to be in. He was apparently cut from a similar cloth. Brandon relaxed but still found himself wishing he wouldn't have to spend the night dressing up for a bunch of strangers. Or at the least that he wouldn't have to hide his fondness for his boyfriend.

To the forefront of Brandon's mind, this all brought about the idea of coming out. He'd mulled it over aplenty, but he also avoided truly thinking about it. Ronnie's mom and Mark and Dave all knew, but _his_ parents had no clue. He'd spent the past few years focused on hiding himself. He didn't know how to unveil it all now. He'd gotten good at selling different versions of himself. Different faces, if you will. 

The music had to be faced eventually. If he had a FaceBook, he could set his relationship status to 'Taken' and pray no questions were raised about the fact he was taken by a 'Ronnie', a noticeably masculine name. Christ. Why didn't he have a FaceBook? Everyone did nowadays. It would've made this a hell of a lot easier. But the easy way wasn't always the best way. Making arguably important announcements through the internet felt impersonal. And risky. Then again, so was lying to his mom's face about why he hadn't had a girlfriend since middle school.

When Dave and Mark returned, Dave was proudly sporting a sombrero. They'd found it on a trash can by the gym, which Ronnie thought was disgusting.

Mark looked thoroughly disappointed.

"Please take it off," he begged Dave, though he was an accomplice and enabler.

The sombrero was offensively large.

"Fine, but I'm keeping it," Dave said. He put it on the passenger seat, on top of Ronnie's camera. He figured this would also deter any would-be thieves from breaking into his car.

The four, now appropriately dressed, presented their tickets and walked into the gym. This was also when they realized what a stupid mistake they'd all made. A surprising amount of people took the cowboy theme to heart. Some boys were wearing hats and sheriff badges, a couple of kids wore cow print, and one of the chaperones had an _Indiana-Jones_ -style whip. Mark thought that last detail wasn't very western-esque. He didn't want to find out what the teacher was actually using it for.

This was embarrassingly ridiculous.

Large posters adorned the walls. There were faded prints of orange sunsets, saloons, and horses running through desert terrain. The strobing lights made Brandon's head spin. Disco lighting was rather appalling when paired with the old-timey theme. This was a poorly organized experience one could not, in good conscience, recommend to other party-goers.

The four stood awkwardly by the bleachers. Most of the student body was sitting or standing still instead of dancing, much to the dismay of the supervising teachers. The gym was packed though. A lot of gullible teenagers had fallen into the trap that was prom.

After a few minutes of idle conversation, Dave walked away to get some punch.

"Probably spiked," Ronnie reminded Brandon.

Brandon grinned. Mark followed Dave.

Dave filled a solo cup with unnaturally red-colored juice. He wondered how many types of food poisoning it'd give him. Two felt like a safe bet. Maybe three?

"Want one?" He asked once he noticed Mark.

"No thanks," Mark said. He leaned forward, speaking in a hushed voice. "I think we should leave."

"Why?" Dave knew damn well why.

Mark looked back behind him. He could see Brandon and Ronnie, on the sidelines away from the main crowd.

"I don't know about the pearl-clutching folks at your school," Mark said, mildly offending Dave with the caricature, "but public school kids aren't that stupid. Brandon and Ronnie are either going to stand three feet apart from each other the entire time or they won't. I'm betting on the latter. If one of these dumbasses catches on, just remember that Brandon's parents are friends with half the people in town. This is a bad idea."

"Yeah, well, it was youridea," Dave sighed. "Hindsight's twenty-twenty. We could head to the diner, I guess." A lot of guesswork these days. 

That was as close to outright agreement from Dave as Mark was going to get.

When they walked back to their spot by the bleachers, Ronnie and Brandon were nowhere to be seen. This was either fantastic news, or really, really bad.

Dave called Brandon on his cellphone.

"...Are you guys okay?"

_"Oh, that. Right,"_ Brandon said. In the background, Dave could make out the sound of a distant car's wheels against the asphalt. _"Ronnie and I are getting some fresh air. Walking across the street. We'll be back."_

Dave could hear Ronnie laughing as if there were no way in hell.

"Well then. Bye."

Dave had gotten the short end of the stick. All he'd wanted was to see a bunch of idiots dressed up in cowboy attire. As it turned out, the biggest idiot was him.

He caught up with Mark, who was chatting with a girl, who Dave assumed was a classmate. She said something about how tall Mark was and Dave realized he should probably find something to kill time, alone. This was going to be a long night. He couldn't go home because he'd driven everyone. Brandon and Ronnie had chosen to leave—they could walk home for all Dave cared—but he'd feel guilty if he left Mark stranded.

He wasn't ready to call it quits on the night just yet. Brandon and Ronnie had gone AWOL, but there was a possibility they'd return. Dave held out hope. The pricetag of prom had made a dent in his pocket. Tickets were steep enough as it was but kids from outside the public school had to cough up an additional twenty bucks. That was all well past the point. The girl, whose name was something along the lines of Gwenifer, knew Mark from an English class. She invited him and Dave to sit with her and the other band kids. He and Mark, Dave reasoned to himself, had nothing much to lose except their dignity. And even that was in low supply. So sure, why not?

Dave had planned to keep his mouth shut. Always a safe card to play with strangers but then someone had to bring up senior pranks. Before he knew it, the words were rolling off his tongue. Hardly aware of himself, almost on autopilot, he talked about one of his many run-ins with the red school's principal. He got their small crowd to chuckle a bit and even cheer. Once Dave eased into it, the stories kept coming. Mark was impressed.

For an odd reason Dave couldn't place, he felt like he was buying time. Putting something off. Stalling. A train had set out on its tracks, and it was headed somewhere mistaken. But that was foolish, right? Nothing had happened. Not yet. 

The school was out of sight. The further they walked, the darker it got. A few early Christmas lights dazzled, lighting the street here and there. Ronnie watched as they lit up Brandon's face. Street lights were scarce 'round this part of town. They walked hand in hand.

The first snow of the year hadn't yet fallen. It'd be there, eventually. It'd bring a deeper chill, too, before anyone noticed. It'd creep up on them and subsequently be forgotten. Change was quick and natural like that. You wake up one day and realize things are not the same as they were yesterday. And then you brush your teeth and get dressed and it stops mattering, as you forget the last fragments of what feels like a dream. It'd happen again the next year. The year after that too.

The leaves were starting to change colors.

Brandon lost track of whether he was following Ronnie or if Ronnie was following him. In the same way Ronnie lost count of how many lampposts they'd passed. They were following their feet, wherever they were headed. They found themselves at a nearby park, close to Brandon's neck of the woods.

"I have this feeling we won't be heading back." Brandon thought out loud.

"I was thinking we wouldn't. If it'd make you happy, I'll drag myself back across the pavement and dance or do whatever we're supposed to," Ronnie said. He'd crawl through broken glass just to make Brandon smile. "But the dance was shit, 'cuse my French. I feel bad about leaving Mark and Dave though."

"Yeah, it was, but we also didn't give it much of a chance. We checked out after six seconds, mind you... They'll be fine without us."

Ronnie led Brandon, by the hand, to a formerly yellow-colored roundabout.

"If I asked really nicely, would you spin me?" Brandon asked.

Ronnie bit his tongue. He fought the urge to sing a lyric from "You Spin Me Round (Like A Record)". He didn't say it, but he smiled like he knew something Brandon didn't.

"Suit yourself, honey."

And so Brandon stepped on, not without feeling goosebumps at the pet name. Ronnie took hold of one of the bars, feeling metal against his palm from where the paint was scraping off. He swung his arm back and forth for momentum and let go. He hopped on too.

The world stopped spinning after a minute or so. The pair kept on laughing; Just like they'd heard the funniest joke in the world that no one else knew. It was at this point Dave would usually spit a line about the couple being on drugs, and what a waste that was. Dave wasn't there to crack jokes, albeit lovingly. Brandon thought about it anyway, which made him laugh more.

It'd been almost a year since they'd gotten together. It'd been even longer since they'd fallen for one another. Brandon still felt the butterflies. They were unrelenting, like moths eating through cloth. They were welcome now.

This may not last forever but it'd be good while it lasted. 

Brandon felt silly dancing through the street in his nice clothes. Ronnie felt even more absurd, seeing as this was his only suit. They laughed at themselves.

Brandon remembered old thrift shop vinyl and the sound of skates gliding across ice and the old fear and the color orange.

The world stopped spinning because things made sense, a little more than they did before. The laughter has stopped too, but Brandon's still smiling. He wraps his arms around Ronnie's neck and pushes up on his toes to lean in for a kiss. Ronnie kisses him back with an open mouth, and for a moment it's just them. Brandon's grateful Ronnie isn't as tall as, say, Mark, because he then might just lose his balance. But he doesn't fear falling. Doesn't even flinch at the thought. He knows Ronnie would catch him. And as he pulls away he pecks Ronnie's chin, maybe even his neck, and it's so quick yet so provocative. It's absurdly teenaged. Ronnie can't do anything but revel in it. 

It's a shame a neighbor walking her dog happened to pass by on the sidewalk. Neither of the boys took notice. It likely wouldn't have mattered if they did. She was far away enough to appear unseeing. To add insult to injury, it's one of those inbred teddy-bear-looking purse pooches on the leash.

The neighbor's name was Holly and though she was well-intentioned, she had a habit of making things her business that shouldn't have been.

She thought it over and wondered if that really was who she thought it was. On Monday, she baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies.

Holly decides to pay the Flowers household a visit. Specifically, she goes to visit Jean, who is Brandon's mother. And a friend to half the town, remember? Jean was surprised to see a neighbor knocking at her door, but it was the holiday season after all. They catch up, making small talk, as acquaintances would.

Holly was unsure of how to get from point A to point B, unsure as to what the natural means to this end were. Luckily for Holly, Jean brought up the topic of her son's prom on her own, unprompted.

Alright then. Means? Considered them sorted. But Holly still can't be sure. She'd only seen Brandon's profile and quite frankly, she had no idea who the other boy was. She asked to see a picture, all offhanded and casual-like, and it hardly crossed her mind that maybe she shouldn't be doing this. Jean looks to the fireplace mantel, where she'd left the camera.

Holly's mouth is agape once she sees the first picture. It depicts four teenage boys, all with self-satisfied grins. She saw what she fully expected to see. And then, as she remembers herself, she thoughtfully clamps her mouth shut and puts on the expression of a concerned woman.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and Holly was as kind-hearted as they come.

"Jean, I'm not sure how to tell you this," Holly says, "but I saw your son kissing this boy in the park. That night." She points to Ronnie, who, to her, is the boy in the black suit. Her face is expressionless. A smidgen concerned, perhaps, but there's no depth to that look of hers. 

Jean's face falls and scrunches up in confusion. A frown paints her face. The urge to explain to Holly that this is none of her God damned business strikes her, but she remembers her manners.

"Well, thank you for the cookies."

Holly sees herself out. Another civic duty completed, good on her. Jean ponders what she'll make of this. She'd been caught off guard. Getting comfortable, conversational. She thought people really could come 'round here just to be friendly. Never making that mistake again. 

When Brandon got home, he said 'hi' to his mom as always, and went to the kitchen. His mom followed.

"May I?" He asked, already reaching for the plate of cookies.

"Help yourself, honey."

The irony was not lost on him. He took his cookie anyway. It was a bit on the dry side, but not overly sweet.

"Brandon, did you go to the park the night of the dance?" Straight to the point.

He nodded. The nerves hadn't quite settled in yet. But there's something dead wrong happening here.

"With who?" She starts to get antsy. She still believes there's a chance the chips will fall in her favor.

He considers fluffing the truth up but decides not to push his luck. "With Ronnie. We needed to take a breather." He shrugs.

Jean takes a deep breath. "A neighbor saw what you two were doing."

"Saw us doing what? Running around like kids?" Now _that_ was pushing his luck. Unbeknownst to him, all his cards were out on the table. They'd just been laid by someone else. But the lies, the little white lies, were starting to come like second nature.

She grits her teeth. "Not exactly. She told me she saw you two making out." That's not exactly how Holly had put it, but this whole thing was a bit topsy-turvy to begin with. 

Brandon's heart sunk. He tasted bile, that wretched burning in the back of his throat. He might vomit. Time for damage control.

"Jesus Christ," was all he could manage. He braced for impact.

Jean didn't know what to do. She didn't even know what to say. She told Brandon she didn't want him hanging out with Ronnie unless she was home. That wasn't quite what she'd wanted to say, but it was near impossible to figure that out and then find the right words to say.

An unrelenting headache rolled out between Brandon's eyes. He'd take any other punishment, but not this. It made him feel small and childish, which was not how a seventeen-year-old ought to feel. She didn't feel good about this. Faltering now would've shown a break in confidence. Unsure was not how a parent thought they ought to be. Maybe jumping the gun was worse.

Brandon thought to ask if she herself had a problem with him liking boys, or if she was pandering to someone else's idea of a reputation. He realized he may not like what she'd say. The one thing he couldn't be was sure. Everything was inverted and the world halted at a slant. _Note to self: trust nobody, rely on nothing._ That made two of them. 

Ronnie was confused when Brandon stopped returning his texts and calls. He'd dial every evening to wish him a good night, or to try. The ringing droning on taunted Ronnie. He left voicemails for a couple of nights, then stopped calling altogether. He texted a couple of evenings after that too. He soon gave up entirely.

If Brandon needed space, then oh, alright, it was distance he'd get. 

Ronnie wanted an explanation. Mark tried and wasn't getting any answers either. He'd texted and even called once, only to be met with radio silence. Brandon couldn't bring himself to explain that his parents knew and the aftermath was somewhat of a mess, so he didn't explain at all. He went from feeling small to feeling like nothing. It was one thing to be trapped. Another to be complacent.

Ronnie was left with an emptiness in his chest.

Not knowing was what made it hurt in that deep thorny way. The sharpness of it came from assuming the worst. If the dance had made Brandon realize he had no interest in Ronnie, that would hurt, but it'd be nice to hear it. Just to know. There were optimistic and rational explanations, of course there were, but Ronnie's mind steeped in its own worst nightmare. Where there was a will there was a way, so Brandon must've had no will.

Dave, on the other hand, was angry. Not the loud, turning-tables-over type of angry, but a quiet, simmering under the surface type of mad. He was the one who went to school with Brandon. He was the one who had to break it to Mark and Ronnie that Brandon had to take a 'rain check' on their after-school plans. They all knew Brandon wasn't busy. Dave had to lie for him anyway. They were in the twilight of their high school years and soon they'd be running off to college or to jobs. Yet here Brandon was, watching sand fall through the hourglass. 

Ronnie came to expect Brandon's absence. Dave's words still made him feel as if he'd been punched in the gut.

Brandon gave Dave explanations, which were truthful, because he had to tell someone. Dave considered them to be excuses. As a self-professed slacker and jackass, Dave felt scummy about excuses. He owned it. He'd say, 'damn what other people think, Bran,' and he'd ask 'have you considered not giving a fuck?' This yielded no results.

Brandon asked, practically begged, Dave to tell Mark and Ronnie for him. He was desperate for them to know but he couldn't say it himself. 

Dave would do no such thing, but not without feeling guilty. It hurt less to believe his best friend was a coward than it did to feel sorry for the guy. He was repulsed by what he saw as Brandon's spinelessness, which meant he still had it in him to fix it. Foolishness and hesitance could be mended back into nerve. If all he felt was pity, Dave thought, he might as well take off the boxing gloves and give up. But this was Brandon's match to fight. The punches started rolling and strategy had gone off the rails. It was too late for plans.

Dave knew that when push came to shove, he'd have to help Brandon up off the ground. It was what good friends did. Brandon would do the same for him... Just not yet. Dave had to sit with his righteousness for a minute. Then he'd figure everything out.

"Why's he doing this?" Ronnie asked, for what was likely the hundredth time.

It'd been a little over a week.

Mark picked at his food. Hanging out at the diner wasn't the same when the fourth seat was vacant.

"He's just being a cowardly dick," Dave said. He only half-meant it.

Mark's ears perked up at that. That was the first time Dave had even implied anything remotely specific about what had really happened.

"Care to elaborate?" Mark said, "or do we gotta bleed ourselves dry at the altar before king Dave can enlighten us?"

It was when Mark got bitter that one knew he'd exhausted all other methods.

Dave sighed. He was fresh out of anger. "Ronnie, remember on the night of the dance when you and Brandon ran off? Ironically, that's when things got interesting..."

The chords of a sad record danced through the air. Every heart-wrenching breath felt like swallowing a packet of razor blades. That sick feeling in Brandon's throat had stuck around for days. Yet, unfortunately, there was no blood or mucus or vomit to ease the dryness.

That night, he sat on his bedroom floor. The way things were looking, he was under house arrest. If he was going to be treated like a child, he may as well helplessly squirm like one. He'd briefly mentioned that he was almost an adult, which didn't make a dent in this bastard of a problem. He was too tired to push further. _Brace yourself for the worst. Again._ Except the truly deep cuts always stung more than anything he could prepare himself for. You just never know, do you? Horrific daydreams had nothing on reality. 

Daydreaming. As if any part of this was pleasant or a distraction from dullness. Brandon would kill a man for an ordinary boring day. If only this could all disappear. If only that hammering headache of his could finally hit the nail on the head and just fucking quit it already. This was a waking nightmare.

His brother and one of his sisters came to visit, under the guise that they were there to share their season's greetings. In reality, Jean asked them to assist with what she called a 'situation'. She wasn't thrilled. It wouldn't help, she just knew. But again, there was no manual for this sort of thing.

This would be easy, the older siblings thought. All they had to do was verbally kick Brandon in the ass and get him to stop moping, politely and with a smile. When they knocked on his door, Brandon kept himself locked in. He ignored them. He felt dark raindrops of guilt. Compared to the abundant sea of hurt weighing down on his chest, that was fine. They didn't know what happened. They wouldn't get it. He preferred to keep it that way. If his parents wouldn't explain it to them, he wasn't going to either. He didn't want to have to defend himself. He was tired of that. He was sick of his business becoming everyone else's.

His siblings went home, back to their respective dorms. Brandon's mom tried knocking on his bedroom door again.

"Shane, Shelly, for the last time, I'm not talking about this with you," he called back.

"They left," his mom replied. "Brandon, open the door. You have to come out to eat, at least."

"I'll eat before school tomorrow."

Skipping dinner every day made his headaches all that much worse. Still, this partial hunger strike felt necessary. He'd weighed the pros and cons of self-immolation, but realized he couldn't see his boyfriend if he was dead.

"Fine."

Brandon thought she might walk away, but he heard no footsteps. Deep down, part of him wanted her to stay. It was a quiet, skittish wanting. As it crept through, he felt tears start to burn at the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away. He wished she'd hug him and tell him everything would be alright, that she loved him. He'd outgrown that treatment long ago. No one in his corner now. He wrapped his arms around himself, held on tight, and closed his eyes. He sat with his head in his knees, thinking there might be momentary peace if he could manage sleep.

"God, you're going to have a hard life." Her voice shook as she broke the silence. This wasn't an argument. It wasn't an attempt to change his mind. It was a realization. When he was a kid, she could put bandaids on his scraped knees. She could tell stories that'd make the monsters under his bed disappear. She could dry his tears. They'd long past reached childhood's expiration date. It'd snuck up on her. She hadn't seen the years spiraling by. Now, she was staring it down. 

It got harder with each kid, Jean thought. With the first, she didn't see it coming. Once she knew, she tried harder and harder with each kid to hold on to the easy moments. The days of wonder spent on the grass out in the summer sun. The times when Brandon knew nothing and in turn, nothing knew him. Nothing could touch him. The more she held on, the more it escaped her. It was inevitable. Sure as time and as death and as newness. It tore her heart out with a twist each and every time.

"Made it this far," Brandon mused. "Life's hard for everyone. Isn't that what makes us who we are? I don't know, I'm not a philosopher. It's not like I woke up one day and decided to be... the way I am." He couldn't quite spit it out yet. Not to her. Those last embers of shame still sparked and burned. "People are always demanding small pieces of you, I think. You ever notice that? But he doesn't demand anything. He doesn't take. He just is." 

That was the most he could say. 

All the scraps of metal and shards of glass he'd been left with had become a mosaic. The good and the bad. The sun would have to shine through that stained glass window eventually. It was almost time to see what picture it'd project.

Jean rubbed her eyes. That damned door never felt so much like the wall of Berlin as it did now. She ran her hands through her unkempt hair. The different pieces of broken glass in _her_ life made a conflicting picture. She protected her kids, but she also cared about the way other people saw her. The guilt clouded her judgment. The hesitance. What felt like the right thing to do wasn't easy, and it hardly even felt right. What she truly wanted for Brandon was different than what other people would want of her. Something had to give.

Brandon counted what was left of his own pieces.


End file.
